


The odd and bizarre adventures of Aziraphale, angel, and Crowley, demon

by GiulsTheGrey



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Gen, Idiots in Love, Love, M/M, No Smut, Romeo and Juliet References, Slow Burn, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27104989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiulsTheGrey/pseuds/GiulsTheGrey
Summary: It all began in a garden, where a demon and an angel met for the first time. 6000 years of 'fellowship' (as a certain bookshop owner in SoHo would call it) followed. Golgotha, Italy, the Globe, Paris, London... Aziraphale and Crowley can't help but end up together.How was the Arrangement born? Who is Raphael? Why are there so many poems and songs which speak about angels, old fashioned lover boys and pining?Well, this story will answer all these questions and some more.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 62
Collections: The Good Omens Library, The Ineffable Con 2





	1. The very beginning

**A REMINDER FROM GOD HERSELF**

Dear humans, please note that angels and demons do not have a gender. Knowing that you need some sort of gender-centred identification nevertheless, the story hereby narrated presents classical personal pronouns, so to help you understand.

Actually, there are many things you may not understand. If so, remember one thing to explain it all: my Plan is ineffable.

**ADAM**

Adam was trying to cook some food but he had no idea what he was doing. In the process, he had heard many disappointed gasps coming from somewhere around him but had seen no one else.

Eventually, when he tried to mix some funny looking leaves with some yellow fruit, an angel appeared from thin air and stopped him.

“Please don't, my dear! It’s going to be terrible.”

Adam, puzzled, looked up at the pristine angel. “Huh?” he asked.

The angel just shook his head (irritation wasn't a thing yet, but Heavens, wasn't he irritated?) and proceeded to show the first man how to cook some decent food.

“I’m Aziraphale, by the way” the angel introduced himself once the meal was almost ready to be eaten. “Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Here to protect you Humans.”

“Adam” the man answered, indicating himself.

“Yes, yes, I know. Now, where is Eve? She’s much more interesting. I mean, she is probably hungry too. Eve, where are you?”

**EVE**

“Psss! Psss!”

Eve turned around but saw no one. She returned to her idle stroll through the Garden.

“PSSSS! Up here!”

She looked up and saw a huge snake, glaring at her through big yellow eyes.

“Hello, creature” she greeted him politely.

“It’ssss Crawley” the snake said. Then added, “Have you sssseen a decent ssspot where to sssun bathe? Apparently, everything issss covered by the treesss’ shadowsss”.

“There should be a shadow-free rock near the Apple tree. You may follow me there!” Eve suggested.

“It sssoundsss nice.”

The two of them walked silently to their new destination. Eve was right. There was a nice and warm rock there, one of the few which wasn't casted in shadows. The snake curled up there, letting out a satisfied hiss. Eve sat next to it.

“Nice Garden, isn't it?” Eve asked after a while, just to have some conversation. 

“Ngk. Sssuppossse it isss. Ssseen better, though” was Crawley’s reply.

“Wait, is there something else apart from this Garden?”

“Of courssse there isss! You didn't know?” The snake sounded surprised.

“No… but I guess it doesn't matter, does it? She loves us, that’s all we need to know” Eve replied wisely.

The serpent stayed silent for a while. Humans still didn't know how to brood or the emotions associated to brooding (and how can you tell a snake is brooding anyway?) so Eve didn't notice that Crawley was brooding in that moment. When he spoke again, his tone was different but Eve still didn't know what rage was. “Sssso you're jussst obliviousss to everything? You jussst… exisssst here, and that’ssss it?”

The woman shrugged. “Doesn't sound that bad, does it?”

“Of courssse it doessss!” the snake yelled. “There is much more out there, beyond that wall! You are in a gilded cage but you don't even know it! How could you? You don't even know what _choice_ issss!”

“Woah!” Eve exclaimed. “Is this personal?” She was starting to feel empathetic towards this creature. Moreover, she liked his funny stories.

“That’sss one way to put it, yesss.”

“Tell me more, then” she asked with a smile.

They talked for hours and Eve started feeling strange. First of all, she began wondering why there was _only_ Adam around. He was fine, but he was starting to become boring. Then she wondered why they were surrounded by walls. To keep somebody out? Or to keep _them_ in?

Her mind was still too simple for all these questions and her head was starting to hurt.

“I don't understand” she finally told the snake.

“I know.” He looked sad. “But there isss sssomething you could do to underssstand. I’m not sure it’sss sssafe though.”

“Just tell me, please!” she begged.

“Alright! Err… you jussst have to eat an Apple.”

“What?! But it's forbidden!” Eve gasped.

“Why?” the snake asked. If he had had eyebrows, he would have lifted one.

“Because…” the woman began, ready to explain him how wrong he was but… but she realised there wasn't a reason. “Because” she whispered, understanding his point.

The snake nodded, as he could see the wheels turning in her brain, putting all the pieces together. “Now you can make a _choice_ ” he offered.

Eve didn't say anything else. Instead, she lifted one hand, took an Apple and bit it.


	2. Hope, doubt and red hair

**AZIRAPHALE**

Doubt. His heart was filled with doubt after that day on the Golgotha and the death of that Jesus. It wasn't the first time he felt doubtful but this… this was too much. The young man told people to be kind to each other and it all resulted into him being brutally murdered. Aziraphale really couldn't comprehend how God could have accepted it: wasn't She all about kindness and love?

“Her Plan is ineffable” he muttered to himself without much conviction. 

Moreover, he couldn't help but think about Crawley’s – (actually, he had changed his name. It was Crowley now. Aziraphale had to admit it fitted him better than the old one) Crowley’s words: the demon was always disturbingly right. Or at least, he always had a fair point, but Aziraphale would never admit it to his face. Crowley surely got under his skin, yellow eyes, mocking grin and all.

That was why, when the two of them met again some years later in Rome, the angel was so keen on talking to him again. He needed something to fill the hole left by doubt, or at least some distraction. He caught himself even looking forward to chat with the demon again.

“Oh, then let me tempt you to…”

He suggested without thinking. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he realised how foolish he must have sounded. However, Crowley looked amused under his little dark glasses, a smug smile on his lips. Aziraphale found himself grinning as well.

“Right, that’s your job” he added. “But still, I’m definitely going to eat those oysters. Would you care to join me?”

“Sure. Lead the way, angel.”

And so, the two of them went to eat oysters. Actually, only Aziraphale did and then served himself from Crowley’s plate. He didn’t notice that the demon was too busy watching him eat greedily from under his glasses to bother with his meal. 

**CROWLEY**

Hope. That's what he felt while looking at the angel eating with him. Well, looking at the angel eating while he stared and thought. Hope that after all, his damned life wasn't that bad if he could enjoy some quality time in company. In Aziraphale’s company.

“I didn't mean to fall” he thought, ignoring his oysters. Yeah, he really didn’t mean it. He didn't even know he was doing something wrong. All he knew was that one moment his wings were pristine and his halo was shining, while the next he found himself falling, painfully hitting the ground, almost drowning in a sulfuric pit… The memory was still fresh, almost unbearable, so he shut it out.

The point was that he found himself being a blasted evil demon committing blasted evil deeds. Only, he didn't feel particularly evil. He just felt hurt.

Then he had been sent to Earth as a snake and there he had met Eve. He had thought that she should have had a choice, unlike him, and so he had told her that the garden of Eden was a gilded cage. The Apple and the first sin of mankind had come just a little bit later. That same day, he had met Aziraphale for the first time. He quite resented all the angels still left in the sky and had been ready to mock him but instead of finding a self-centred, boasting angel, he had found a soft and insecure one. And bold, apparently, even if he could have never been able to tell before hearing about the flaming sword. Aziraphale gave him food for thought, that day in Rome even more so.

“That was heavenly delicious. What do you think, my fellow?”

Crowley was suddenly brought back to reality by Aziraphale’s question. “Ngk?” he said, meaning it as a question to repeat.

“Yes, rather scrumptious, I agree” the angel smiled, unaware of the fact that the demon hadn’t even touched his spoon.

They left the restaurant together, Aziraphale chatting of this and that, Crowley answering from time to time with vaguely agreeing noises. But he was smiling all the way out of town.

**AZIRAPHALE**

Aziraphale was enjoying the salty morning breeze coming from the sea when he heard a familiar voice screaming. He hurried towards the clamour and was just in time to see two men throwing a stone at a ginger-headed figure. Crowley.

The demon, at that time, was posing as a woman, long flowing curls and loose dark robes. As the stone hit him, Crowley hissed at the two men but before he could do something horrible (like turning into a snake and scare the cow out of his aggressors), Aziraphale stepped in and used a polite tone to say, “Calm down, gentlemen. Leave this… _poor girl_ alone.”

One of the men, the bigger one, stared down at him. “She a wicked spirit, a daughter of Devil. Don’t you see? Just look at her hair! Now, move along. Our job not finished yet.”

Aziraphale tried to remain polite, “Now now, my friends. Red hair is a normal human trait, I can assure you that the… Prince of Darkness has nothing to do with it.”

The man smiled cruelly as his friend came to stand beside him, “So you defending her. How about I beat you both?”

The men must have thought that dealing with a strange-looking skinny girl and a fluffy white man would be easy. Probably, if you didn't already know that these two are respectively a demon and an angel, you would have agreed with them.

Aziraphale, who really disapproved of any kind of violence, shook his head disapprovingly. “I’m giving you the possibility to reconsider your actions” he said calmly as he looked straight in the big man’s eyes. With his real form’s too many eyes. Whatever he saw there, the man’s body went unnaturally taut. Then, his voice barely audible, he whispered to his friend, “Not worth it, mate. Let’s go home.”

As the two would-be-very-damned-souls left, Crowley shouted after them, “And reconsider your life choicess too!”

Then he turned to Aziraphale. “That wasn't necessary, you know.”

“I couldn't let you do something demonic to them” the angel answered, a bit distracted. It was quite bizarre to see how Crowley changed his attire, not only according to fashion, but also to gender. Like back then, posing as a woman (a rather good-looking one). To Aziraphale, it was like he was wearing a different dress. To the humans, he looked like another person entirely. He wondered if all this shifting had something to do with his snaky nature (you know, the changing-their-whole-skin-every-now-and-then thing) or what.

“Damn stupid humans” Crowley muttered, breaking Aziraphale’s line of thoughts.

“So…,” he asked, “all of that because of your red hair?”

“Yeah. How could I have _ever_ imagined that it would turn against me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Err… well, it’s embarrassing.”

If Aziraphale hadn't known better, he would have sworn that the demon was blushing.

“I just saved you. You owe me the truth, don't you think?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I _didn't need_ saving, angel. Anyway, long story short, I went to a village and people there had never seen someone with red hair. So, they asked me about it and it was veeery annoying, so I told them it was a demonic thingy. You know, just to be left alone. How could I have imagined that they would really believe it and spread the story? It was just a bloody joke, for Satan’s sake!”

Aziraphale couldn't help but giggle, “Evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction.”

It was one of the few times Crowley had no smart retort to snap back.

**AZIRAPHALE**

The encounters with Crowley, however exciting, always left him with a sensation of guilt which grew bigger until they met again. It was a rather disturbing cycle that Aziraphale couldn't break.

He felt guilty because Crowley was a demon and was supposed to be his hereditary enemy. Every time, he thought he was going to politely end their strange relationship. He even prepared himself in front of the mirror:

“Vile demon, I know I’ve been indulgent before, but now it’s time to end this little game of yours… no, no, too harsh.”

“Old snake, we have known each other for a long time and I think we have been avoiding the battle between good and evil… who do I want to fool, I don’t want to fight!”

“Crowley dear… Dear?? He’s a demon, goodness!”

But then he met Crowley again and Aziraphale was so relieved to see a familiar (and rather friendly) face, and Crowley had this kind of alluring aura and it was inevitable to fall in their old pattern of banter and.... And Aziraphale felt happy. He had found a way to cherish their strange relationship, nothing like the professional and sterile one he had with Heaven. Or the wary one with the rest of Hell. And the volatile one with humanity.

But, as precise as future Swiss clocks would be, he started feeling guilty every few days later.


	3. The Arrangement and what comes out of it

**CROWLEY**

Crowley despised the 14th century. Blood and corruption were on a lot of people’s daily schedule back then. He must admit that he may have started some of it: he convinced the pope to organise a very expensive Jubilee; he persuaded the people of Bruges to get rid of the French in their city (but he didn't think that they would be so adept at killing every single one of them); he also invented queues. Then nature decided to take its vengeance on humans: first leprosy, then heavy rain and floods. The only good thing about that century was the completion of the tower of Pisa. Crowley had deliberately chosen an unsuitable spot and was absurdly proud to see that, despite any human attempt to prevent it, the tower was dangerously leaning to one side.

He also lost a friend. He usually didn't mingle with humans but that time… it was inevitable, really. He hadn’t met Aziraphale for a long time, Hell praised him for horrible things he hadn’t committed but sounded very demonic, and he felt miserable. So he travelled to Italy, Florence, a city renewed for arts and politics. And there he met a poet with a crooked nose. He was supposed to tempt him and he did, arousing the already married man’s desire for another woman. But the poet didn’t drown in his desire, as usually humans do and as Crowley expected; on the contrary, he used it to write astonishing romantic poems ( _Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare / la donna mia quand’ella altrui saluta_ ). As a result, Crowley got curious and decided to speak to him again. They became friends and went out drinking together. Once, while drunk, he told him about Hell, hatred in every word. The mortal took a work of art out of his angry drunken speech and, despite everything, Crowley was deeply touched by his brilliant cruel rhymes. Then, the candle of the mortal’s life went out and the demon was alone again. Alone and full of sorrow.

He ran into Aziraphale a couple of days before the burial, in Ravenna.

“Crowley!” he heard his unmistakable voice behind him ( _ch’ogne lingua deven tremando muta / e li occhi no l’ardiscon di guardare._ )

“Angel, what a surprise” he greeted, while turning, trying to sound a bit pleasant and to avoid the angel’s gaze. But as soon as he faced Aziraphale, he was (as always) struck by the intensity of his aura, so warm and welcoming he almost forgot his grief. Almost.

The angel smiled, at first reluctantly, then openly. “I was just wondering where you had slithered to, my de… demon.” Now he sounded indecisive. The angel was clearly a bit distressed, but before he could go on about slithering, Crowley talked again, “Yeah, I’ve ssslithered here and there… you know, quite ssslow as a meanss of transsport…” he added a bit bitterly. He knew the angel had good intentions but sometimes he really seemed incapable of letting go of his celestial judgment about him.

Aziraphale must have sensed his mood because he replied more sweetly, “I’m sorry Crowley, how rude of me! I just… I mean… Never mind. How have you been?”

“Mmmh… alright. Quite.”

Aziraphale didn’t buy it and asked, concern in his voice, “Is there something I… can do for you?” (... _e par che sia una cosa venuta / da cielo in terra a miracol mostrare_ ).

And in that moment, Crowley had an idea. It was foolish and it could have put both of them into trouble but he wanted to be at the burial so badly, even if he couldn't understand why.

“Actually yess. But you won't like it” and he explained his request: Aziraphale should have gone to Rome for a quick temptation because Crowley himself was… busy otherwise, and then Crowley would owe the angel one.

“This is preposterous!” exclaimed Aziraphale.

“Just think about it: our head offices want the job done, they don't care how. We’ll keep balancing each other, good and evil, and they won't suspect a thing!”

“Crowley… we shouldn't even be… whatever we are, you can't ask me to accomplish evil deeds… I…”

“But I will do sssssomething good in return! Please, angel, just... _please!_ ”

Aziraphale looked at him, quite shocked. And then, he agreed weakly, “Just this time.”

Crowley couldn't help but hug the angel ( _...e par che de la sua labbia si mova / un spirito soave pien d'amore,)_ squeezing him hard and letting out a shaking breath. After a couple of seconds, Aziraphale hugged him back 

_(che va dicendo a l'anima: Sospira_ ).

**CROWLEY**

Crowley had reserved one of the theatre’s balconies. Well, not exactly _reserved_ but the final result was the same as reserving: no one else would use the balcony that night. He was waiting for Aziraphale, tapping his fingers on the wooden rail. The angel had just come back from Edinburgh that morning and Crowley thought there was no better way to welcome him back than inviting him to one of Shakespeare's play. Actually, he did that because he felt _slightly_ guilty about having cheated when he had tossed the coin for who would be going to Edinburgh. Just slightly. The angel hadn't noticed, anyway. So it wasn't Crowley’s fault if Aziraphale trusted a demon.

He smelled his… essence first (there is no other way to call it and you humans would understand anyway): lotus and spring breeze, with a little touch of some human perfume (lavender maybe). Then, he heard his steps on the wooden stairs to the balcony and later his voice, as he appeared on the threshold and said, “Oh, a privé! How wonderful!”

“Don't start with compliments” Crowley warned. “I made a noble-prick-someone fall ill to have this spot. Nothing serious” he added, because Aziraphale had made a shocked face and had opened his mouth to surely reprimand him.

The angel sighed but then smiled, “Well, I supposed they deserved it. And this spot is too _nice_ to complain about”.

“Whatever, angel” Crowley rolled his eyes.

“So… Hamlet?” Aziraphale asked.

“The masterpiece of the century” the demon declared, in a mockery of a sophisticated tone. “Hamlet’s story will survive eternally because it’s actually about mankind, not just an indecisive boy.”

“Wonderful” the angel said again. “You have outdone yourself this time.”

“Ngk.”

“And this is?”

“A new one. Romeo and Juliet. Love and drama.”

In that moment, the first actors entered the scene, so the two of them went silent.

The theatre was crowded but the other people were unusually silent too.

The first act was quite boring in Crowley’s opinion. But then...

_ROMEO_

_“Oh, speak again, bright angel! For thou art_

_As glorious to this night, being o’er my head,_

_As in a winged messenger of Heaven_

_Unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes_

_Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him_

_When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds_

_And sails upon the bosom of the air”_

He shouldn't have spoken with Shakespeare while drunk. He shouldn't have spoken with Shakespeare _at all_. That man was a thief of lines! Well, he hadn't said exactly that but… _he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds_???

_JULIET_

_“Tis but thy name that is my enemy._

_Thou art thyself, though not a Montague._

_What’s a Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,_

_Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part_

_Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!”_

He risked a glance at Aziraphale. The angel was completely absorbed by the play. If he concentrated, he could see his white wings, lightly quivering in another dimension. 

The play went on. “The two young lads are pretty stupid” was all Crowley could think. Though, when Juliet, towards the end, stabbed herself with Romeo’s dagger, he almost yelped.

_PRINCE_

_“A glooming peace this morning with it brings._

_The sun for sorrow will not show his head._

_Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;_

_Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished;_

_For never was a story of more woe_

_Than this of Juliet and her Romeo._

As soon as the play ended, all the people stood up and frantically applauded.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale, ready to make a sarcastic comment, but then saw that the angel was crying.

“You didn't like it?” the demon asked, as casually as possible and trying not to sound concerned.

Aziraphale sighed and wiped away his tears. “On the contrary, my friend. I loved it.” He smiled up at Crowley. “It’s just… sometimes human emotions are so strong and… I don't know how to explain: my heart is _filled_ with them. And it’s wonderful and heart breaking at the same time. I’m not sure you can understand, being a demon…”

Crowley shrugged. “Huh. Next time a happy one. Deal?”

“Deal” was the whispered answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is "Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare" by Dante Alighieri. He wrote it for a woman he admired, back at the end of the 13th century.


	4. Raphael

**AZIRAPHALE**

In the flow of centuries, Aziraphale had come across multiple times with the character of Raphael. Raphael was an angel who loved humanity and who manifested quite regularly on Earth to perform some miracles. He was frequently represented in human art, mostly red-headed, sometimes with black wings, sometimes with white ones and he always had a remarkable physique. Therefore, there were many things that made him quite puzzled. Actually, tremendously puzzled. But here there are the main two: first of all, some of the miracles this Raphael was praised for were actually _Aziraphale’s_. Second, there was no angel, of any kind, in any corner of Heaven, named Raphael.

Eventually, he elaborated a theory: usually Aziraphale didn’t show himself to humans. If he did, he almost blinded them with a heavenly light so that they could only see his wings (he wanted some anonymity to be free to roam the miracled place afterwards. You wouldn’t want every single villager stalking you around and begging for a favour). Sometimes he also told them his name and he supposed that “Aziraphale” might be a little bit tricky on human tongues and so they just turned it into Raphael. But why the black wings? And what about the other miracles that weren’t his?

Eventually, he got an answer. Aziraphale was enjoying a private party at an aristocrat’s house in Paris, somewhere during the 17th century. The noble was showing to his guests his art gallery, which was full of remarkable paintings and frescoes. A flash of black wings and red hair captured the angel attention and there it was: _Archange_ _Raphaël et Tobias,_ par le Titien (replica). The angel was guiding a boy, Tobias he supposed, through a garden. Aziraphale was staring at the picture, in awe, when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. Startled, he turned, finding a smugly grinning Crowley.

“Hey there, angel. Fancy meeting you here!”

“Oh dear, you scared me, Crowley!”

The demon smirked, probably aware of it. “Sssso, what do we have here…” he started again. But then he stopped, staring at the painting, his slitted eyes wide behind his glasses.

Aziraphale finally recovered from the surprise and academically explained, “This is a replica of a painting in Venice, if I am correct. It represents the archangel Raphael, protecting and guiding the boy Tobias. The thing is, there is no angel Raphael. Isn’t it quite curious, is it?”

Crowley remained silent for a while, then cleared his throat.

“Yeeeeah, there’s something I probably ought to tell you, angel” the demon whispered.

“I mean, there can’t be a Raphael or I totally would know him… wait, what is it, what have you done?”

“I… err… I invented Raphael.”

“Oh goodness! You?!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “But-but why and how and…”

Crowley let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “Well, long story short, I did ssome not-exactly-evil deedsss and found myself in need of an angelic façade to, er, you know, be ssafe and whatever and so I came up with Raphael, which could actually be also you and then we had the Arrangement and now it is even more handy than before when I go perform your miracles…”

Aziraphale was staring at the demon, quite baffled. “So, let me understand: this Raphael is just a made-up angel to cover your acts of… kindness?”

Crowley’s eyes dilated. “I’m NOT _kind_ , angel” he hissed, grabbing Aziraphale by his shoulders. “I jussst wanted to… I mean, there was this kid and I… it wasn't intentional, really… oughhh!” he finally spat.

The angel beamed at him, patting one hand on his. “Don’t worry, _old wily serpent_. Now, now… Should I make a demon name up, so to cover my moments of mischief?” he asked rather smugly.

Crowley rolled his eyes and let go of him. “You already have me, don't you?”

Aziraphale supposed he did.

**CROWLEY**

“I’m not kind, I’m a bloody demon, for Hell’s sake” Crowley was muttering to himself while walking back home after the party. “I just… I mean, that kid was _lost!_ Was I supposed to leave him there? All alone?”

He probably should have but he hadn’t. He found Tobias wandering in the desert, lost, and decided to accompany him to his destination, the city of Ecbatana. While he was there, to be true to his demonic nature, he tempted him to marry a widow (it doesn’t count that they lived happily together ever after) and then found himself obliged to make sure they returned safely back home. He might have also healed Tobias’s father’s blindness and then might have tried to give the credit to a magic fish but to no avail. Eventually (more precisely, when he had run out of options) he had showed them briefly his wings and told them he was the angel Raphael. At first, he had thought to use Aziraphale’s name but (maybe), knowing some of the awful people from Upstairs (Sandalphon, for instance), he had decided for something a little bit more discrete: Azriel… Zeraphale… Phael-something… Raphael. Yes, Raphael: simple, effective, and very angelic. And so, the myth of angel Raphael was born and somehow the humans had started to use it both for Crowley and Aziraphale.

The demon was pleased by this result but also felt scorned, even if he wasn't sure why. He had successfully covered some of his not-exactly-evil actions, both from Hell AND Heaven (which reaction would be worse?) but… but he had expected a different response from Aziraphale when he would have found out. Which response, he didn’t actually know. So he felt scorned. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of Tobias is actually quite funny: the archangel Raphael truly used a magic fish to heal Tobias's father! AND, when first meeting Tobias, he pretended to be a human called Azaria. I mean, it screams Crowley!  
> Anyway, feel free to leave comment. I'll read and answer gladly.


	5. Meanwhile...

**MEANWHILE IN HEAVEN**

“Sir, archangel Gabriel, sir!”

“Yes, angel Ithiel?”

“Sir, I have been reordering old paperwork, sir.”

“Good job!” exclaimed Gabriel. Paperwork was important after all.

“The thing is, sir, there is an error.”

“That is very odd. Tell me about it.”

“A couple of millennia ago, an old man was healed from his blindness, sir. Actually, the illness was miracled away.”

“Not so unusual back then” was Gabriel’s answer. A couple of millennia ago the archangel himself had visited Earth, bringing important messages to humans. That trend had quickly ended soon after.

“You are right sir, but there is no record about who performed that particular miracle. The angel who was in charge of filling paperwork in wrote this note: ‘The humans are praising angel _Raphael_ for this miracle.’”

“Who the fuck is Raphael?” was what Gabriel thought. Instead he said, “It must have been Aziraphale. Sometimes he forgets to report his deeds.”

“That’s impossible, sir. Principality Aziraphale was in Greece back then.”

Gabriel thought it briefly over, then he smiled encouragingly at angel Ithiel. “Do not worry, I’ll have others help you look into this.”

So Gabriel had other looking into that. But he would never find out who the fuck Raphael was.

**MEANWHILE IN HELL**

“Lord Beelzebub, I got something for ya” a lesser demon announced while he bowed.

“What iz it” demanded Beelzebub. 

“Not 100% sure actually, but I casually ended up reading some old sticky notes.”

“You can read? Wonderful!” the Lord of Hell buzzed ironically. “Now zzztop wazting my time!”

“Wait! The funny thing is yet to come! You know the demon Crowley?”

“Yez, he iz a pain in the azz but uzually effective.” They were starting to get very annoyed.

“Well, he was supposed to be to Edibroh or something some years ago and tempt or steal something.”

“He wazn’t?” Beelzebub asked. Now, _that_ would be interesting: they would have someone to punish.

“He wasn't, apparently! Another note reported that he was in London at the same time! But” the lesser demon added before the Lord of Hell could rejoice, “the evil deeds were accomplished anyway. Isn't this odd?”

Beelzebub remained silent for a moment and then ordered, “Ligur! Throw thiz little incompetent shit to one of the hellhoundz! Zo maybe next time he will think twice before wazting my time!”

As the lesser demon screams turned distant, the Lord of Hell threw a glance at some of the sticky notes the incompetent waste of sulphur had brought with him. Looking at the crooked and chaotic different handwritings on them, they couldn't help but think, “No wonder he couldn't make a damned thing out of theze. The writing’z shit!”


	6. Not very angelic, not very demonic

**AZIRAPHALE**

It didn't occur to Aziraphale that some of his habits weren't exactly angelic till the late 18th century. More precisely, he realised it in 1793, while travelling to Paris. During a crazy revolution. Just because he wanted crêpes. They are no good in London, really. 

He started getting anxious, worried that it may be considered a sin of gluttony. But it was just crêpes after all. Inevitably, he started thinking about all his habits: dressing fine, eating elaborated food, having autographed books, first editions possibly… Well, he ought to pretend he was human. It was just a façade, really. So, he continued his trip to Paris and as soon as he set foot in the city, he ended up in prison.

“Well, this escalated quickly!” he babbled out nervously to the guards who brought him in.

“Vive la République!” was the only answer.

Actually, it was a complete disaster. He didn't dare to perform a miracle because he had already been sternly apprised by Gabriel because of some _frivolous_ miracles. “I mean, that cocoa was terrible, it could become drinkable only by divine intervention. And it’s not my fault if that nice and expensive jacket wouldn't fit me anymore…”

Not that his French jailers cared and so he winded up chained in a filthy dungeon, trying to come up with something, _anything_ smart in order to talk his way out of it. The problem was, or better, his problems were that first, he couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, he was too panicked. Second, he didn't remember a word of French. He really couldn't afford to be discorporated! “Bloody crêpes!” he swore in his mind (he had never sworn aloud and he wouldn't start that day, despite the understandable situation).

And then…

“Animals don't kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that.”

Crowley’s voice brought up too much at once: relief, disappointment, happiness, a bit of shame and, somehow, the words of a long-deceased Tuscan poet ( _foco mettesti dentro in la mia mente / col tuo piacer io vidi…_ (he couldn't remember the rest in that moment). Good chap, that poet. The man had such charisma that once Aziraphale found himself discussing about Heaven with him. He tried to be positive, so not to upset the mortal (he had such high expectations!). Aziraphale had also inspired him to fight for what he thought was right (something about being black or white… he hadn’t really understood) and was sad to find out it costed him exile from his beloved city…)... But mostly relief.

“Crowley!” he almost cried out, turning to face him. “Oh, good Lord!” he added as soon as he got a peek at his attire. For someone who usually follow the rules of fashion, the demon was not very well-dressed. Well, he was relatively well-dressed for a bourgeois, he conceded.

Aziraphale had to explain how he had ended up in prison.

“So you just popped across the Channel, during a revolution, because you wanted something to nibble? _Dressed like that?”_ Crowley said, furrowing his brow.

“I have standards” Aziraphale explained, mildly irritated. He couldn't just dress as some peasant while eating crêpes in Paris.

Then, realizing how rude he had been (it was because he was hungry and had forgotten good manners) he tried to thank the demon.

“Don’t thank me, if just a rumour came down to Hell…” was the retort.

“What about if I buy you lunch?”

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. “Looking like that?”

The angel sighed soundly and with a wave of his hand changed his clothes with the ones of his guard.

So they went to eat crêpes. And then drink some wine, a really fine one, in a quiet tavern. At the end, Aziraphale felt a bit flushed but very pleased. He also felt something else, something sweet and warm but he couldn't really place that feeling.

“It must be that I’ve finally eaten some decent crêpes” he thought a bit hazily, smiling benevolently at Crowley (or at least he hoped to look benevolent but the wine wasn't really helping his facial control).

“What’s that dumb look about?” asked Crowley.

Aziraphale turned to see if there was someone at his back and was at first puzzled, then irritated because there was no one else in the room that Crowley could have defined as dumb but himself.

“It’s angelic benevolence, my dear” he explained with what was supposed to be a haughty tone. Further explanation was cut out by a _hic._ The angel covered his mouth, embarrassed. Crowley, though, burst out laughing. “I can't believe it, you’re totally wasted! Am I having a bad influence on you, angel?” 

“Not at all!” exclaimed Aziraphale, outraged. “Just toooooo much stress today. _Hic._ Not a jolly good day.”

“Drink to forget” Crowley nodded. “I might have invented that.”

This time it was Aziraphale’s turn to burst into uncontrollable giggles.

Crowley stared down at him, a smile tugging at his lips. “Well, angel, I'll go before I cause some real damage here _and,_ ” he added with emphasis, “to let you sober up in peace. There is a carriage waiting for us tomorrow at dawn. You know, to go back to London.”

Aziraphale let out an exaggerate shocked gasp. “Will there be time for some last crêpes? You can't expect me to leave without breakfast!”

The demon stood up and went in front of the angel. “Just one, maybe.” Then, he bent down and kissed the angel, just above a corner of his mouth. Aziraphale went very still under his touch and as the demon stepped back, he looked at him, bewildered. Crowley simply shrugged, “Just the way the French sssay farewell to each other's these daysss. Wouldn't want to lose my head jusst because I forgot a kisss… Would you?”

Aziraphale just stared at him, mouth slightly parted. When the demon left, he still hadn’t come up with a suitable response. 

Anyway, that was the first time that Aziraphale truly got completely drunk. And it wouldn't be the last.

**CROWLEY**

The Arrangement had been Crowley’s idea but eventually he began thinking that the angel was gaining the most from it. Not sure how, but the demon _always_ winded up doing lots of little four-lettered-positive-adjective deeds with Aziraphale not even asking. All it took was a glance from him (Crowley called that particular expression “holier-than-thou-uses-easy-tricks-to-have-me-doing-not-very-evil-deeds”, aka “pleading puppy” but would never admit it aloud) and there he was, making Hamlet famous, letting withered flowers bloom anew, eating _bloody_ crêpes which he didn't even particularly like just because those damned eyes. He simply couldn't refuse his enthusiasm. 

The angel was going to be the end of him but Crowley couldn't help but _gravitate_ around Aziraphale. Sometimes, he had the impression the feeling was mutual… sometimes, he thought that Aziraphale was gentle with him because it was demanded by his very nature.

Like in Paris. At first, he had seemed very pleased to see him but then… then what? Crowley had tried a thing he had been thinking about doing for a long time: the goodbye kiss. And he couldn't tell _anything_ from the angel’s reaction. The day after, he had behaved as usual but maybe that kiss wasn't something unusual and so why should he have behaved differently? “That’s what you call overthinking. I probably invented it” he thought, exasperate.

The thing was, he didn't deserve the angel’s attention. Friendship. Fellowship. Whatever the fuck it was. No, he didn't, he was just a ssslithering sssnake, _crawling_ for just a glimpse of how his life had been before the Fall, a glimpse of… of affection, meaning that after all he wasn't that bad. He thought all of this during his bad days.

It was on one of his good days that he almost lost Aziraphale. Almost. It was the year 1800 and Aziraphale was going to open his bookshop in a matter of days. At first he had tried to keep it secret from Crowley (who had already anticipated the whole thing when the angel had read the “for sale” sign on the shop’s door during one of their strolls) but then had been so excited that he had told him while they were drinking some wine at a fancy restaurant. Crowley had feigned surprise only to humour his friend and had promised him they would celebrate the event.

So, the morning of the grand opening, he bought some chocolates and some fancy liquor to match them and headed to the bookshop. He arrived at its doors just to hear a peremptory voice saying, “We're bringing you home.” It was Gabriel. And then, “Promoting you back upstairs.” Sandalphon.

A piece of Crowley wanted to run for his life. If an archangel found him there, alone… But the other part was at the same time very angry and terrified. Not for himself though.

“But only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley!” Aziraphale glimpsed him outside the bookshop and imperceptibly shook his head, something like worry in his eyes. Crowley _had_ to come up with something…

“I do not doubt that whoever replaces you will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are. Michael perhaps” was Gabriel’s reply. 

“Michael? Michael’s a wanker!” the demon thought angrily. But then, an idea popped into his mind. He signalled to the angel not to worry and proceeded with his plan. Which involved a lot of creativity and courage. And a dressed-up mannequin.

From a less desperate point of view, Crowley’s plan was really more stupid than courageous. But it worked: he made sure that the bastards from Upstairs were at earshot as soon as they left the bookshop and started to talk with the mannequin (who was acting as a monster from Hell), pretending to be happy that Aziraphale was leaving. “Good news! The Champion of Heaven is leaving Earth!” he told the mannequin in his best evil voice. “I'd rather take a bath in holy water than meet him again. He’s so good at thwarting me…”

From the corner of his eye, he looked at Gabriel, slightly paling and returning to the bookshop to order to Aziraphale to stay. Sssso, who was a wily ssserpent?

When the bastards finally left, Crowley entered the bookshop triumphantly. Aziraphale was seated on a chair, looking a bit pale.

“Cheer up, angel! We did it once again” he declared.

“What on Earth were you thinking, Crowley?” the angel yelled.

Well. This wasn't the reaction he had expected. “Saving your ass?” he said with an annoyed tone.

“My people are _dangerous_ and yet you play them as they were innocuous humans!”

“I'll write thissss down, ssso next time I’ll remember to jusst let them take you away.”

“Yes! I mean, no!”

Crowley didn't want to hear this bullshit anymore, so he turned and headed outside but a hand grabbed his elbow.

“What I mean,” Aziraphale whispered, voice almost breaking, “is that this time it went well but… they could… they could smite you, dear Lord, have you bathing in holy water! Oh my, oh my…”

Now the angel was gripping both his arms, a desperate look on his face. When he realised what he was doing, he let go and stepped away. A tear escaped one of his beautiful eyes and Crowley mechanically moved his fingers to wipe it away. They stared at each other for a while, barely breathing, unblinking. 

Crowley was the first one to break his gaze away.

“I must go,” he fumbled, “to do temptation and ssstuff. You know, demonic thingss. Sssee you.” 

He left without other words, without even waiting for a retort. There was nothing left to say anyway. Nothing that could be said aloud by a creature which wasn’t ever, under any circumstances, supposed to love.

**AZIRAPHALE**

Aziraphale felt very bad for that day at the bookshop. So, the very next day, he sent an apologetic letter to Crowley:

_My dear Crowley,_

_I am so very sorry about last Saturday. I am truly glad that I didn’t have to leave and the credit for my uninterrupted presence here is all yours._

_I hope you can forgive me, over a dinner in your favourite restaurant._

_Please, send word if you accept my apology. If you don't, I will understand._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Aziraphale_

The angel spent the next few days in a lunatic and quite nervous mood, in his bookshop: clients passed by but he always found a way to shoo them away (apparently, you are supposed to _sell_ books in a bookshop!). Every time the door opened, he whirled, expecting it to be Crowley. But it wasn't. He was almost resigned to never see him again when the demon showed up at his back door with a nonchalant “Hey angel, what’s up?”

Aziraphale stared at him, marvelled by his good-looking attire: he was wearing an elegant black suit on a crimson shirt and a grey tie.

“Angel?” Crowley repeated, snapping his fingers in front of his face.

“Ah yes. Fine suit. I mean, I’m nice. Goodness, I’M FINE” Aziraphale babbled.

“Yeah, sure. _Suit as a fine_ ” the demon smirked, rather sarcastically. Then he added, “Sso, you ready to go out?”

Now the angel was confused. “What? Where…?”

“Your bloody letter, angel. Did or didn't you invite me out?” 

“Ah yes, but I was waiting, I mean, it’s fine but…,” he looked down at himself, “I’m not ready. Actually, I’m not ready at all! I wasn't…”

Crowley interrupted him again. “Not a problem, angel. Here you are”. He snapped his fingers again and Aziraphale found himself dressed with the cream-and-teal suit he had bought while thinking about this very occasion.

“Oh” was all the angel could say. “Oh, thank you.”

Crowley made one of his funny faces, the one with pursed lips, which meant _not a problem, angel_ (or at least, this was Aziraphale’s interpretation. If you asked Crowley, he would probably think _your wish is my command_ but would say _yeah, whatever_ ).

“Just… just let me close the bookshop and we can go” he said weakly.

“Already taken care of” said Crowley, grabbing his arm and linking their elbows.

They went to eat to the Rule’s. After some minutes of embarrassed silence (to be more precise, Aziraphale’s silence was embarrassed, Crowley’s was companionable), they returned to their usual banter: Aziraphale would talk about anything and Crowley would say something (usually involving the least number of syllables possible) now and then.

Paid the bill, they went out and walked through the city. They were almost back at the bookshop when a steady music came out of a nearby building. Aziraphale stopped abruptly and listened more carefully. After a couple of seconds, he exclaimed, “Oh, gavotte!”

He loved gavotte (and, to be honest, he was also pretty good at it) but he was sure Crowley didn't like it. So he started walking again. But the demon didn't move. “We could go and have a look” he suggested instead.

“Are you sure?” asked Aziraphale doubtfully.

“Yes, why not?”

“That’s very nice of you, my dear” the angel smiled, heading towards the music.

“I’m not nice” uttered Crowley, dramatically rolling his eyes.

The building happened to host a small dancing club and that day it was Gavotte Night. At first, the two of them only watched the people dancing, standing by a small buffet table, but after a while (and a few pastries) Aziraphale couldn't stand still anymore.

“Do you mind if…?” he asked Crowley, a bit hesitantly.

“You don't need my permission, angel. Go on. Shoo” he added at the uncertain look Aziraphale gave him.

“Tiptop!” the angel cried out with a big smile, before throwing himself into the gavotte.

Aziraphale danced, drank some more wine and made sure Crowley did too, and danced again. At the end he was bursting with so much glee that he grabbed the demon’s hands and tried to lead him in the gavotte. If you had asked the opinion of some of the other participants, they would have said that the duo was very awkward: Crowley’s concept of dancing was more like freely sliding on the floor rather than following precise steps, but Aziraphale had fun anyway, and couldn't help but laugh. When the music stopped, the angel kissed the demon briefly on his lips, then skidded away, giggling, cheeks reddened. 

Crowley slowly brought up his hand, touching his lips with his fingers, a strange look on his face.

“What was that?” he whispered. 

“Wouldn't want to end a gavotte without kissing, would you? It’s tradition!” Aziraphale laughed. 

He linked elbows with the demon and pushed him outside. “Come on, it's late, we better go home now” he chided.

Crowley followed him silently, letting the angel tug him along. He hadn't failed to notice that no other dancer had kissed.

“Tradition” he repeated. “Yeah, no kidding with tradition.”

Just for you to know, that particular tradition _had_ existed but had eventually died out a couple of centuries before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Aziraphale thinks about is "Deh, Violetta", by Dante Alighieri. The two of them had a common friend but didn't realise it very soon...


	7. Things go south

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first part, there is mention of violence and torture. You can skip the first paragraph dedicated to Crowley if that disturbes you.

**CROWLEY**

As soon as the shock of Aziraphale’s not-promotion wore out, Crowley realised he was daring the odds a bit too much. To be truthful, he had always been daring Hell’s odds but _directly helping his ‘hereditary enemy’..._ that was a bit too much for even a rebellious demon. If Hell got word of it, the result would be catastrophic. 

His fears were confirmed by an unexpected, unpleasant visit. He was minding his own business in a hotel room in Florence (he enjoyed to take some holidays sometimes) when someone knocked at his door. He didn’t have time to say “Come in!”, nor “Let me be, for Hell’s sake!” that Incubus, one of the torturers of Hell, banged the door open, followed by Dagon and two lesser demons.

Crowley wore his best circumstantial smile. “What a pleasant surprisse! To what to I owe the pleasure?”

“Cut the shit, serpent” Dagon hissed. “You’re in trouble!”

Crowley gulped, “Listen, if it’s about the bookshop…”

“Bookshop? What’s a bookshop?” Incubus growled. Oh. They didn’t know. Shall their stupidity be blessed.

“It’s _you_ , you are the problem, Crowley. Haven’t been doing well lately” Dagon confided.

“I’ll make it up as soon as possible, thank you for letting me know!” Crowley answered, seeing them to the now unhinged door. But his guests weren’t done yet.

In a swift move, Incubus jumped on him and pinned him on the floor. Dagon took hold of his hair. “Not so easy, I’m afraid” she whispered in his ear. Then, “Do it” she ordered to the lesser demons. Crowley tried to look at them even if his face was pressed against the cold floor. They were holding crosses in their gloved hands.

“No” he couldn’t keep in the whimper.

“Yes” Dagon smiled while Incubus removed Crowley’s jacket and shirt.

He couldn’t do anything but scream as the demons used the crosses to mar and burn the skin on his back. He couldn’t even think of anything worst until they forced his wings into the material dimension. Crowley thrashed weakly as Incubus dragged a featherlight hand on the arc of one of them. “So sensitive…” the torturer whispered, licking his lips. Crowley tried to steel himself. He wouldn’t beg, he wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t…

He didn’t know for how long it went on but when it finally stopped, he was in so much pain that he remained splayed on the floor, panting hard.

His fellow demons left without another word but it is well known that Hell sends warnings only once. Next time, they would come to end him. Crowley needed a plan.

But in the meantime, he needed to rest. When he finally felt strong enough to stand, he walked to the tiny mirror that hanged in a corner. He growled at the sight of his marred wings. The scars wouldn’t fade soon.

**CROWLEY**

It took him some time to come up with a plan, write down its details, reconsider it a few times (257, give or take) and then work up the nerve to explain it to Aziraphale. 

He sent a note to the bookshop which said: “3 p.m. 5th meeting point _🐍_ ” and then dressed elegantly to go to St. James Park. He brought some bread so Aziraphale could give it to the ducks (he loved to but he would probably forget to bring his own). Once arrived, he started pacing in front of the ducks’ pond, clutching at a piece of paper in his pocket.

Aziraphale was late. He arrived at 3.18 p.m. in a sort of funny half run. “Sorry I’m late, my dear. I wasn't sure if the 5th place was here or the other one by the Thames… Have you got some bread? I was in such a hurry that I forgot mine.”

Crowley silently handed him an old loaf and listen for a while the angel chatter, until he brought up the courage to draw the piece of paper out of his pocket.

“I wrote a note. Walls have ears. Well, not walls, trees have ears. Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears? Must be. That’s how they hear other ducks.”

Aziraphale took it with a curious look on his face but as soon as he read it, his expression became horrified. “I’m not going to give you a suicide pill. It would destroy you!” he almost cried.

Crowley had imagined some kind of resistance, but not this… anguish? Fright?

“It’s just as a precaution” he tried to explain (he didn’t want to mention the visit he had received, his friend would worry too much) but Aziraphale wouldn't listen and they ended up having a fight.

“I have a lot of other people to fraternize with, _angel_!” he spat out. “I don't need you!”

“The feeling is mutual. Obviously!” the angel screamed, tossing the note, which simply read ‘Holy water’, in the pond and storming away.

“ _Obviously_ ” Crowley mimicked, now alone.

He stared at the pond, absently listening to a Russian agent trying to convince an English spy that they should be left alone when dealing with the Ottoman Empire. The ducks were carefully listening too while they ate the dark russian bread. He thought to run after the angel and ask for his forgiveness. But who was he kidding? He was a demon, forgiveness was never an option for him after the Fall. And the angel was right: maybe Crowley needed him but on the contrary Aziraphale didn't need the demon.

So he left in a hurry, went to his apartment and closed himself in. Hell might be after him soon. Heaven would gladly destroy him. And his only friend… He didn't want to think about Aziraphale in that moment but he wrote down a note for him anyway.

1862 sucked and probably the rest of the 19th century would suck. So he turned into a snake and went to sleep. So he slept and slept and slept.

**AZIRAPHALE**

Aziraphale didn't sleep the night after the fight. Actually, he very seldom slept (there were so many things to do, so many books to read!) but that night, if he had wanted or not to sleep, he couldn't have anyway.

He kept on replaying Crowley’s words in his mind and couldn't make sense of them. Then, at 4:29 a.m., a terrible idea crossed his mind: Crowley _may_ have thought of suicide ( _may_ because he wasn't sure yet about what the demon actually wanted to do with holy water) because he had had enough. Aziraphale knew that life in Hell was… well, a hellish life and by then the demon must have got used to it. So… so it meant that Aziraphale himself hadn't been enough. His friend (the demon was his friend. Aziraphale couldn't deny that anymore) was in a difficult situation and the angel had overreacted, without clearly analysing the situation beforehand, as any good principality would have done. Aziraphale had let him down, drowning in despair, and it was something no angel should do, hereditary enemy or not.

He waited till 9 o’clock because he knew that Crowley, on the contrary, liked sleeping, and tried to contact him. But the demon wouldn't answer. Aziraphale panicked and visited in a rush every single church in London, dread coiling in his stomach. He found no bubbling puddle of sulfuric remains anywhere. That gave him a pause but he was still very worried.

At 6:34 p.m., an unsigned note arrived at the bookshop:

_Went to sleep. Guess I’m tired of the 19th c. I’ll wake up when I feel to._

It was a relief at first. But then Aziraphale started feeling alone. And he continued to be alone for a long time.


	8. A very long time to hold a grudge

**LETTERS (SOME OF THE ONES AZIRAPHALE ACTUALLY SENT AND DIDN'T THROW AWAY PLUS TWO NOTES FROM CROWLEY)**

4th of November, 1868

_Dear Crowley,_

_As you probably had foreseen, the rest of the 19th century isn't going very well. At least, slavery has finally been abolished in America but tension is growing in whole Europe. I’m afraid that something terrible will happen… Shouldn't you be here overseeing all the mess?_

_A new restaurant has opened near the Thames anyway. I’m looking forward to try it out!_

_Best wishes,_

_Aziraphale_

25th of June, 1871

_My dear Crowley,_

_France and Prussia are at each other’s throat. I’m not saying that I’m surprised but… any divine intervention proved useless._

_Given the unusual quiet at the bookshop, I’ve decided to try to befriend some humans. I know you don't really care but still, you are the only one here who can understand how difficult it is. At first, I tried to talk to some of the bookshop’s occasional customers. But it didn't work out very well: it’s them or my books…_

_Then, I decided to join a club. I thought of a gavotte club at first but apparently the dance is going out of fashion and I can't find a good one nearby. So, I joined a magic club. It’s very funny, really: humans have no magical ability but they have some awesome tricks like making coins appear from someone’s ear or draw out rabbits from hats. I’m practicing these tricks too and I must say sometimes it is really difficult just not to perform a little miracle. But there would be the fun in that?_

_So… it’s been a while. When are you coming out? You know, the balance between good and evil… There is a magician show next week. Maybe I’ll see you there?_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Aziraphale_

12th of December, 1897

_Crowley dear,_

_There is a new invention that you would really enjoy. It’s called telephone, you can use it to talk to other people who live far away, through a wire! I'll wait a bit and then buy one for the bookshop. I could buy one for you too so not to use messy notes any more._

_For the rest, things aren't going very well. Famine struck India. War is travelling throughout Europe. But it’s not only them. The people are… worse too. There is a great writer here in England. Maybe you have even met him. Oscar. I know, he will be one of yours when his time will come but his writing is… I don't know how to describe it. He can be hilarious but also very serious, he has a special insight of human life. He has been incarcerated because of homosexuality. I really don't get it. Why do humans always fight one another over human habits?_

_Anyway, next week a secret group will meet and read one of his books as an act of solidarity. Care to join?_

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale_

21th of April, 1914

_Crowley,_

_I am aware that you must be very angry but… the situation here is plummeting. Maybe we should leave London. Or maybe not, since the problems are mainly in central Europe, between France and Germany. Please answer me, there is no time to linger._

_Aziraphale_

_No time to meet, got lot of work to catch up with. You shouldn't have bothered with the wine._

_🐍_

5th of September, 1918

_Dear Crowley,_

_You probably chose the worst moment to wake up! But the Great War is apparently going to end soon. We should celebrate, don't you think?_

_Remember the telephone? I bought two if you should ever want to have one._

_Don't thank me for the wine, it was the least I could do._

_Best regards,_

_Aziraphale_

_Celebrating is always a good idea but I’m very busy, I can't stay for long. I’ll be at the bookshop as soon as I’m free._

_A.J.C._

**GOD, IN VOICE-OVER**

They met, eventually, but not for the wine. They met several times, briefly, during work.

“Oh, hello there, Crowley. Quick temptation?”

“Yeah. Some lucky bastard shall get a miracle?”

“Something like that. A conversion, also.”

“Right. I’d better be going.”

“Me too.”

Aziraphale couldn't bring up the courage to invite the demon for a drink, feeling he was still undisposed after the fight. Crowley thought the angel was still on edge and wanted to avoid confrontation.

So they met briefly, only during work, talked the least possible and acted like they were simply polite acquaintances.

Until 1941.


	9. 1941 - or demonic miracles

**CROWLEY**

He remembered everything before the Fall, unlike many demons. He remembered that he loved it up there. He loved creating, he loved his siblings, he loved _Her_.

Then, questions were invented. Soon after, choices. Finally, when humanity was created and secluded in a garden… he didn't understand. He sought answers from the wrong people. He fell. And would _never_ rise up again. 

Sometimes, he pretended he didn't care. Sometimes, he yelled at God Herself, asking to be told what he did wrong. He never got an answer.

He yelled at Her again after the Great War. Once more, he couldn't understand. Once more, only silence greeted him. So, he decided to turn against Her favourite creation, just out of spite. He used both the resources he had been accumulating during his long life on Earth and his demonic power to build himself a reputation, to become the kind of man people turn to when they need something really hard to get. So, the new him, Anthony J. Crowley, became a dealer in favours. And his currency where souls. Or at least, that was the original idea; strangely, he ended up tricking only really evil people. Not the good ones.

To maintain a certain degree of secrecy and mystery, he hired some contacts. And it was through one of them that he found out that some naïf bookshop owner was going to deal with the Nazis. The Führer wanted some prophecy books, apparently, and he had contacted one of the best ancient-book-finders in Europe.

Crowley knew better than to think that Aziraphale was truly working for them. But he also knew better not to think that he was going to walk into a trap.

“Can’t do anything if the angel’s dumb. Serves him right” he thought angrily. But then he remembered. He remembered when Aziraphale told him he gave the flaming sword away. He remembered when they had eaten oysters together. When he had agreed about the Arrangement. When he had cried after Romeo and Juliet. The kiss on the cheek, the kiss on his lips. The anguish when he had thought the angel would be sent back in Heaven. Never again.

So he put on a nice suit and his favourite hat, jumped in the Bentley and drove into the night.

**CROWLEY AND AZIRAPHALE**

The Bentley must have known he was in distress because she started playing a suitable background music for a speed run to a dramatic, last-minute saving. She originally didn’t have a radio but that didn’t stop her from playing some demonically miracled music. By now, she knew his tastes and had developed a sort of theatrical sense of humour. She was a bit bitchy, also.

They zigzagged through the empty and half destroyed streets of London. He stopped in the courtyard of a church, muttered a thanks to the Bentley and went straight for the wooden door.

There was no divine guard outside the building. None inside either, apparently. Weird. Must be a low interest point. Or maybe, consecrated ground was enough to keep all evil outside. As soon as Crowley set a foot on it, he hissed and stepped back. But then he heard Aziraphale’s voice, coming from somewhere near the altar.

“... played for suckers!”

Now now. What a dirty word for his angel. He probably had no idea what it actually meant.

Then he heard three other voices. The Nazis. Guess who had been played for sucker in the end? Crowley let out a dramatic sigh even if out of sight and earshot, adjusting the hat on his head. 

“It’s time to shine!”

Aziraphale sensed him approach (his essence felt like smothering embers and sulphur; the latter, after so many years on Earth, had been slowly wearing out and by then only a very vague smell remained. It was unmistakable) and then saw him, hopping awkwardly on the floor. _Consecrated floor._

 _“_ Crowley! Holy cow!”, “It’s consecrated ground, you can’t walk in here, you’ll hurt yourself”, “Crowley dear, this is not the moment” were some of the many things he could have said.

 _“_ Oagh, it’s like being on the beach, barefoot” the demon rasped.

Instead, Aziraphale chose a hissed “What are you doing here?”

“Stopping you from getting into trouble” was the clipped answer. It looked like he was dancing, tip tap more precisely, while ranting about Nazis. He may have felt relieved but he didn't. What was he thinking? A demon in a church??

“Mr Anthony J. Crowley! Your fame precedes you!” one of the German agents exclaimed, interrupting their banter. Right, they were still in trouble. But _Anthony_?

“Anthony?” he asked, unable to control his curiosity.

“You don't like it?” Crowley really had a pained expression.

“No no, I didn’t say that. And I'll get used to it.”

Meanwhile, the Nazi agents were starting to get really annoyed and tried again to breach their conversation. “The famous mister Crowley! It’ such a pity you must both die.” This intrusion earned the woman who had talked a funny greeting from the demon, who tapped at his (very fashionable and probably expensive) hat with a grimace of his own.

But Aziraphale wasn’t finished yet: “What does the J stand for?”

“Err, it’s just a J, really…” 

“Err, it’s just a J, really…”

Crowley was trying not to hiss too much. It wasn’t just like hot sand. It was also like too many needles stabbing his feet. Or like his shoes being on fire. He wondered if he would be able to use those shoes again afterwards. He spared a glance at the bag of books and smiled at it, winking. 

When he returned his attention to the conversation, the Germans were still talking about killing them both, so he tried to convince them to run for their lives, because a bomb would fall just there. They didn’t believe him. But to be honest, he hadn't tried very hard. “Yeah, it would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw the bomb off course” he finally said. Then, he turned to Aziraphale. “And if in 30 seconds a bomb does land here, it would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it”.

As soon as he stopped talking, a high whistle resonated above them. The Nazis had just enough time to look suspiciously at the ceiling before the bomb exploded. Crowley waited for the ash to deposit on the ground. The best part of the show was yet to come.

“That was very kind of you.” Aziraphale’s voice came out soft, a bit trembling maybe.

“Nah, shut up” Crowley answered. He knew he looked smug and he couldn't help it. 

“Well, it was. No paperwork for a start…” the angel said tentatively. But then he realised that he had forgotten something. Something important. “Oh no, the books!” he cried out, looking around frantically. Crowley’s smug smile widened as he bent down and picked up the bag, _miraculously_ intact, then handed it to Aziraphale. Their fingers brushed as he passed it to him.

Maybe it was a four-letter-adjective action, but in that moment, he really didn't care. He made sure to sound very dramatic as he said, “A little demonic miracle of my own”.

He knew it would work, so he didn't glance back at Aziraphale. But if he had glanced back at the angel, he would have realised it more than worked. It worked so well that, without knowing, he had another miracle taking place.

“A little demonic miracle of my own.”

Oh my God. _Oh my God, Heaven and all the angels._

He…

He felt his heart plummeting down and then rise up again.

He had…

He felt like he was imploding to be forged anew.

He had just…

But he felt also something sweet and warm.

He had just fallen…

Maybe, actually, he had been falling for a long time now. He just didn't realise it because he didn't think it was possible.

The books. Crowley. _Holy cow._

“Lift home?”

… in love.

**AZIRAPHALE**

Love. It shouldn't be difficult for an angel to think about love. And yet…

The universe was made out of it. The angels were too. Everything was, originally. So Aziraphale very well knew what love was, he could even _sense_ it. And so, he knew that _this_ was something else entirely even if it went by the same name. It made him happy, fluttering, light, dreamy. But it also scared him.

It scared him because he knew he wasn't supposed to feel such a thing. He had come to accept that his habits weren't very angelic. That maybe, _maybe,_ he had come close to sin. But this…

“Lift home?”

This was supposed to be _entirely_ out of the question.

He followed Crowley silently. He sat in the Bentley, still clutching at the bag with the books. For once, it wasn't the angel who chattered endlessly. No, he stayed silent while Crowley was boasting, telling him how he had discovered the dealing, how he had thought Aziraphale was walking in a trap, how walking on consecrated ground had felt and on and on. In the background, the Bentley was playing some soft music but the angel… he heard everything but didn't really listen. From time to time, he just answered with little comments like “Oh!”, “Jolly good”, “Tip top”.

They stopped in front of his bookshop.

“... and did you look at their faces? I bet they’re already regretting everything, down there!” Crowley ended his story with a fat laugh. He had taken off his sunglasses so Aziraphale could see his eyes twinkle. He tried to smile but wasn't sure he succeeded. The demon finally looked at him and shut up for a moment. Aziraphale tried to school his expression into something professional, in anything else. He didn't know what Crowley could see and sense. 

Then, after seconds which felt like ages, the demon spoke again. “You know, we never celebrated the end of the Great War. And now there’s another. So how about we drink that wine now?”

“Holy cow” was what Aziraphale first thought. How was he supposed to stand being alone with Crowley now? But he couldn't say holy cow. He couldn't even say no. The wine was a peace offer and he couldn't refuse it. So he let out a weak _yes._

He didn't drink much that night. He just watched as Crowley drank, sprawled in a chair, recalling their best moments together. It was precious. It was painfully precious.

He didn't drink much that night. He just sat there, happy that their relationship was back as before. Terrified that their relationship was back as before. 

He had always thought that to love was easy and right. So why didn’t it feel that way anymore?

When Crowley left with a quick half hug and a “Good night, angel”, Aziraphale went in the bookshop backroom and knelt. He knelt and he prayed, a prayer so full of grace it might have been a song to human ears:

“Oh Lord, oh Lord, what do I do? I've fallen for someone who’s nothing like you!

But I don't think it was his fault. And I don't think it was yours, either, but please

Give me the burden, give me the blame, I’ll shoulder the load, I'll swallow the shame

Because I don't care if he’s guilty and I don't care if he’s not… after all, he’s all that I've got

Oh Lord, I’m begging you please! Don't take him from me… _don't take him from me.”_

Aziraphale was crying as he finished his prayer and looked up, hopefully. He waited for an answer or for a sign. Only silence greeted him.

It was the last time he prayed with real intent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's prayer is taken by a song, Devil's backbone, by Civil War. And I recommend you to watch this video: it's the same song but animated by a Good Omens fan: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKYwV0pbh8Q  
> (Sorry, I still haven't figured out how to display a link properly...)


	10. The Bentley knows better

**THE BENTLEY**

Being a car was a very good thing. She was cherished, first of all. Then, being a demon’s car, even if she was not so young anymore, she always got all the newest and best technologies. She also could choose which music to play and she got to fly on the streets. Not really fly, but the sensation was close enough.

She was very fond of her master and he was very fond of her. They listened to each other. By now, she knew very well her master’s obsession for alcohol, hair style, fashion, drama and the fluffy white man (and herself, of course).

They also enjoyed teasing one another. He would tell her she was an old lady now and that she needed to be careful when crossing the road. In return, she would blast _After Forever_ by Black Sabbath. Or a song from Sound of Music if she was really pissed (all of this, of course, before 1973. Since Queen, if it was up to her, she would play only their songs).

Sadly, Queen didn't exist yet that night in 1967 (she would have known just the right music for their situation. _Love of my life_ would have been perfect, no?). A memorable night in which they both got pissed. Of course drama and the fluffy white man were involved. But let’s start from the beginning.

The morning of that day in 1967, first of all, her master got a haircut. He went to the most up-with-the-time barber in London and got the most fashionable haircut of the moment but he wasn't satisfied. So that’s already a point up the foul mood scale. Then he went in a shop to buy new sunglasses. He stayed inside more than an hour and then came out empty-handed. Another two points. That afternoon, he went to meet someone in a pub. He had explained her that he wanted to steal something. From a church. Five points. And that he needed to assemble a team. Three points (he hated group-working). She waited patiently outside, parked in a no parking area. She was still waiting, playing some classical music (don’t tell Crowley!), when a hand came to rest on the passenger’s door handle. 

“Hello, do you mind if I come in?”

It was the fluffy white man, dressed impeccably as always. A bit out of fashion right now, but wasn’t that cute? 

She opened and she let him in: she liked him, he was always so gentle. And maybe, if she locked the two of them inside, they would finally talk about the elephant in the room (should she say _in the car?_ ) _._ She wasn't dumb, she had noticed (but apparently, they were). So, she waited with him for her master to return, catching her breath. 

She saw him greeting someone and then he entered, took a seat and finally looked at the fluffy white man. The angel, apparently, didn't want Crowley to steal anything. So he had brought a thermos.

“Holy shit” she thought. “Well, holy _water”_ she corrected herself with an inner chuckle as the fluffy white man gave it reverently to Crowley. Reverently and full of concern, as also she was. Holy water, if you heard her master talking, was very dangerous. She snapped back to their conversation as Crowley asked, “Should I… thank you?”

“That won't be necessary, no” the angel answered with a weak and not very convincing smile. 

“I’ll give you a lift, then. Anywhere you want.”

Oh. That was… a lot of emotion. She could feel it in her master’s voice. She caught her breath again, while waiting for the fluffy white man’s response.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Ouch. What the fuck? What does it mean?

Before she could blast some appropriate song about love and denial, the angel left.

**AZIRAPHALE**

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

It was a lie. A big fat lie.

Crowley made a face. He usually made mocking faces, ironic, sarcastic, whatever faces. Angry ones, like when they fought. This one was new. It was sad. Let down.

Aziraphale left before Crowley could say anything else. He could swear the Bentley was very disappointed too.

He walked back to the bookshop, absentmindedly. It took him an hour or so. He did a mental exercise meanwhile:

“You love all things because you are an angel 

This is no different 

He can't love because he’s a demon

The rules were made to be respected.”

He repeated this like a mantra. Every day. It was beginning to work.

**THE BOOKSHOP**

It could smell denial by now. It smelled it, a bubble of it, as soon as its master came home. It sighed. And started rearranging. 

**CROWLEY**

For once, Crowley drove slowly while going back home. His brain was senselessly replaying Aziraphale’s words over and over: “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” Just these words, nothing else. He didn't even notice which song the Bentley was playing for the whole trip (and it was a shame to her, because _Let’s spend the night together_ was very fitting in that moment).

Once in the parking lot, Crowley retrieved a pair of thick gloves from his apartment and carefully took the thermos in his hands. The object simply screamed _Aziraphale_ : who else would buy one with a tartan pattern? 

He walked back into his flat like he was bringing in a bottle full of acid (he would have actually preferred acid) and deposited it in his safe, hidden behind Leonardo’s sketch.

“Jussst assss insurance” he said in a shaky breath, to his empty apartment. The dark walls seemed to let out a breath as well.

Crowley turned away from the safe and walked around the rooms, feeling a bit lost: apart from some pieces of art, his home felt _empty._ True, he liked minimalism and didn't want useless things sitting all around but… He decided to buy some plants. 

***

You can find a video of Crowley, Aziraphale and me reading some extracts of this fanfiction [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DSXJHZR_7mQ&list=LL&index=25&t=881s)


	11. This is what friends are for

**AZIRAPHALE**

“I’m sure I’ve put _this_ in the William Shakespeare section already _four times._ Why does it end up on my desk regularly?” Aziraphale asked aloud, sounding a bit irritated while looking at the first edition of _Much Ado About Nothing_ , which sat casually on his desk. He got no answer but a slight rustling, coming from the depth of the shelves.

He sighed very loudly and proceeded to put the booklet back. But as he turned, he found the original manuscript of _Romeo and Juliet_ , clamorously misplaced. He rolled his eyes but as he took it, he couldn't help but skim through its pages. Aziraphale had bought it from Shakespeare himself the night after the show he had watched with Crowley. He was going to put it back when something on the last page caught his eye. He looked more carefully and couldn't do anything to keep in a smile. There was a sketch of Romeo and Juliet in the garden and a little comment:

_“For stony limits cannot hold love out…” Ugh, cheesy. I bet you’ll read this in something like a couple of centuries._

_🐍_

There was no signature but a little snake. Anyway, it was obvious who had written it.

Aziraphale realised he was still staring at that page after several minutes, still with a dumb smile stamped on his face. He schooled his expression, hoping that it hadn't noticed. But of course it had and as soon as he went back to his desk, he came across the collection of Dante’s poems, which earlier hadn’t been there for sure.

“What do you want in order to leave me alone?” the angel asked in a whine.

He heard a soft _thump_ from behind. He whirled and looked suspiciously at _Pride and Prejudice_ , which now sat on his chair.

Aziraphale tried to argue, “I have work to do!”

The whole section dedicated to Oscar Wilde was now in a messy pile near the door.

“You…! Seriously, what’s all of this about?”

A shelf cracked dangerously.

“Fine! You win! Now stop, please.”

The books finally shut up and stayed inanimate as he walked to the telephone, stomping his feet on the floor. He took up the old receiver and dialled the only number he knew by heart.

One ring.

“Maybe he’s not home” he warned.

Two rings.

“I probably shouldn't bother him.”

Three rings.

“I guess that’s it?”

Four…

“Hello?”

Aziraphale almost screamed and let go of the receiver, as if it burned.

“Hello? Angel, I know it's you.”

He picked up the telephone and finally answered, “Hello Crowley dear, how are you?” he asked in his most polite tone.

“...as always?” was the suspicious response. And then, “Is something wrong?”

“Nono, jolly good and everything, actually. Listen, I was wondering,” Aziraphale raised his voice and articulated every word, to be sure _it_ was also listening. “I was wondering, why don't WE GO TO THE RITZ TONIGHT?”

A moment of silence. And then, “We? You mean you and me?”

“Who else, Gabriel?”

“I was thinking about the Bentley actually” Crowley laughed. It was a strained laugh, wasn't it?

“So? If you are busy, I understand…”

“I’ll be there to pick you up at 9, angel. Don’t let me wait for you outside.”

With these words, Crowley hung up.

Aziraphale slowly put the receiver down and turned to face the bookshop.

“I hope you are happy now!” the angel exclaimed a bit acidly. 

Bookshop satisfied or not, he still had to rearray all the mess anyway.

**FREDDIE**

Someone ringed at the door. Thanks to the particular pattern, Freddie already knew who it was.

“Anthony! What a pleasure. Come in.”

“Hey Freddie” his friend answered. “I brought alcohol.”

“Haha, as always.”

They got comfortable on the two couches of the living room, Anthony outright sprawling on one. Freddie took two glasses and opened the first bottle of fine wine.

“So…” he started, pouring the red liquid, “your angel again?”

“Yeah” Anthony growled, taking a sip and popping his lips, satisfied.

Freddie let out a chuckle. “Tell me, then.”

“Well… He invited me to the Ritz.”

“Wait, what?! _He_ did?” Freddie cried out.

“Yeah, same reaction here” his friend sighed. “I went to pick him up, at 9 precisely” he went on. 

“With your Bentley?” 

“Yes, with her.”

“Ah, that car is stylish as hell” Freddie smiled.

“Yeah, right, whatever. I didn't even drive too fast.” Anthony paused to drink again. “Once at the Ritz I asked one of the waiters to dim the lights a bit. Too bright for me, you know, my eye condition… You probably don’t care, useless detail. Anyway. Lights dimmed and everything, I had them bringing in the wine and let the angel taste it.”

While Anthony described his date with all the ‘useless’ details, Freddie had snatched up a notebook and was now scribbling furiously. 

“So. You paid the bill and he tasted the wine?” he asked casually.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I just said…” Anthony grumbled, then went on with his story. “... While I was driving back, the Bentley was silent, so that I could hear… well, this is stupid.”

“Go on, go on!”

“Well, I could hear his heartbeat…”

“Aha” Freddie answered, writing everything down.

Anthony raised his head in that moment. “Wait, for Satan’s sake, what the Hell are you doing??”

Freddie laughed again and put his hands up. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just that you are very… _inspiring._ ”

Anthony groaned and sank back into the couch. “Why is everyone writing down what I say? I really should stop getting drunk with you famous lot” he whined, even if Freddie could tell he was very pleased with himself.

“Anyway, when I asked him if he wanted to come to my place… he said no. I mean, I just want some company, I’m not asking… ooooough!”

Freddie looked at his notes and smirked, “He’s an old-fashioned lover boy, then?”

“Yeah right. Wait, what?? Nononononono, from where did you pulled out that _lover boy_?”

“Just kidding, Anthony. Don't worry” he answered innocently. Good old-fashioned lover boy. He had a title.

Anthony gave him another suspicious look, then shrugged. “The thing is, when I’m not with him… I think of him. All. The. Time. It’s terrible, isn't it?”

“Mmmh” was Freddie’s answer. However, what he really meant was: “It’s not terrible. It is love”.


	12. Different kinds of pride and prejudices

**CROWLEY**

Driving around with the Bentley was impossible that day. A river of people had flooded London. Colourful, laughing people. But also angry. Crowley could feel anger coming up from them like smoke from a fire.

He was listening to _Bohemian Rhapsody_ when the sound from his radio cracked and then was replaced by a demonic voice: “Crowley”.

“Hey there, Lord Beelzebub. What’s up?”

“Todayz’z a fine day to zecure zome zoulz. We have convinced the humans that AIDZ iz cauzed by homozexual people. Their community iz now furiouz and zcared. Care to mezz thingz up a bit more?”

Without waiting for an answer, Lord Beelzebub cut the conversation. The Bentley let out a furious roar (she hated being interrupted in between a Queen’s song) and played _Bohemian Rhapsody_ from the beginning. Crowley let out a groan.

Homosexual persecution had been a completely human idea and at first, both Heaven and Hell were quite puzzled to see people sent up or down because the horrible or good things they had done about it. After all, neither common angel or demon knew what a gender was. But then, Hell had started using it as propaganda, flashing fake news throughout the human world. Heaven, for once, had reacted too late and all it bothered to do was granting a nice place up there for who they called the movement's martyrs.

Crowley didn't understand any of it. But for different reasons. In fact, having spent almost 6000 years amidst humans, he knew what a gender was but found no utility in the definition. “Why can't everybody be just how they want to be?” was his existential question. “Gender and sexuality are fluid, aren't they?”

Anyway, the Pride Parade was blocking the traffic so he parked the Bentley and dove through the crowd. Anger. Despair. Fear. Doubt. It was overwhelming, but he kept going on, looking for someone, anyone, who could be sent to Hell because of this. He found none.

Crowley felt squished in between all of this anger (why don't we have rights?), despair (why can't I live with the person I love?), fear (how will I tell my family?), doubt (is something wrong with me?). He felt like drowning. He felt like Falling…

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, soon accompanied by a soothing voice: “Crowley?”

Only in that moment he realised he was covering his face with his fingers, his eyes shut, people streaming by. He opened them and found Aziraphale in front of him, looking concerned. 

“Crowley dear, is everything all right?” the angel asked again.

The demon didn't even have the strength to shrug. “Ngk” he mumbled.

Then, Aziraphale was tugging him along, out of the street, in a fresh corner under a tree. Once there, the angel started to fuss about and Crowley let him. He was still breathless (even if he didn't need to breathe), still overwhelmed. When he finally shut it all out, he looked more closely at Aziraphale and…

“Is that glitter on your eyelids?” he asked.

The angel, who had just miracled a bottle of water and was trying to have him drink from it, flushed a bit but his voice was steady when he answered, “I was in the Parade, you know. I had to blend in somehow.”

“It looks very angelic.” It was probably one of his dumbest comments ever. But he just _couldn't_ _think straight._ So he asked again, “How can you stand to be there, in between all that anger and despair and everything?”

Aziraphale smiled, bright and wise. “You’re right, there is a lot of negative energy. But if you focus,” he added, closing his eyes, “you can feel much more: confidence, courage, happiness. Hope. And together, they’re stronger than anything else.”

Crowley blinked sceptically but tried to imitate the angel. He closed his eyes and felt, going under all the negative emotions. And then, suddenly, he found them, he found confidence, courage, happiness and hope. Linked by something powerful. Something sweet and warm.

“Can you feel it now?” Aziraphale was looking at the crowd, beaming.

“Not very demonic but I get it” Crowley answered, unable to break his gaze from the angel.

“I've been into this for long” the angel confided after a long silence. “You know, getting people to accept each other. To love without boundaries. It’s hard, but we're getting to it.”

“So… Upstairs’s helping for once? 

Aziraphale chuckled but his gaze darkened. “Oh no, they don't care much. I meant the humans. The open-minded ones.”

“Damn” Crowley swore. “Hell just asked me to secure some souls involved in all this matter…”

“Crowley” Aziraphale’s voice was low. Vulnerable. “Crowley, they… they have already suffered enough, please, I…”

“You know” Crowley interrupted him, “I don't like that David-W-guy much. Maybe I could pay him a visit…”

“The politician who tried to forbid the Parade?” Aziraphale asked hopefully. 

“Ah, did he, now? Yeah, him. Very bad person.”

His angel smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “My dear, you don't know how much…”

“Yeah, yeah, don't cry on me please.”

“As you wish, old snake.” There were indeed tears at the angel’s eyes.

Crowley searched for something sarcastic to say, but found none. He was too distracted by that something sweet and warm which now radiated also from Aziraphale. So he opted for a classic. “Lift home?”

“I’m afraid the way to Soho is blocked right now. What about your flat?”

Crowley tried not to sound too shocked: it was the first time the angel outright invited himself into his home. “Ok, angel. Let’s go.”

**THE PLANTS**

Master away but they never safe. When alone, fear. When not, fear. Unforgivable and unforgiving. Not his fault. Not their fault. But someone must pay.

A spot. Oh no. What now? Try to grow better. How? No manual, but must try. Fail.

He back. Will he notice? He does. Fear. Respect. Shivers. Help.

Wait. He not alone. Another with him.

“What lovely plants you have here, my dear!”

Lovely?

“Yeah, they better be.” He different.

“Very nice in here. Is _that a Leonardo??_ A bit dark though?” Prattling. 

“Ngk. Wait here, I’ll get some alcohol.”

The another gentle. When alone, smile. “You know, he hasn't really killed your friends with spots. He actually sets them free, in all the parks of London. But don't let him know I told you so!”

“Angel, I almost forgot: don't be too nice to the plants.” A wink from gentle.

They relieved. Now they know they simply fall, like him, into another existence. Maybe at first scary. But then another purpose.

**AZIRAPHALE**

It was the first time he entered Crowley’s apartment. It was so different from his bookshop. It felt empty, apart from the room with all the plants. Crowley had told him about them proudly. He simply had a strange way to take care of them. “Maybe because he never had someone who really took care of him” he thought a bit sadly.

“Angel, come into the living room! It’s more comfortable.” His voice interrupted his wanderings.

The living room revealed itself to be just a big room with an enormous couch, a coffee table and a television. He sat and they started drinking, while talking about everything and nothing.

They drank and drank (or maybe Crowley wasn't drinking that much? He even looked a bit tense. But Aziraphale wanted to let his hair down that night) and after a while, the angel found himself slouched on the couch. His back ached were his wings should have been.

“All this space” he muttered, “good for wings. They tickle – do yours do that too? – when-when left in the other dimension toooo long. Do you mind if I…?”

Crowley groaned from where he was sprawled and Aziraphale took it as a yes. So he relaxed completely and let his wings pop out, secluded no more.

“Aaah” he moaned while stretching them, in the same moment in which Crowley uttered, “Woah!”

Aziraphale chuckled. “It has been a long time, hasn't it? But I must admit your wings entrance was waaaay more scenic than mine.”

“So I _did_ impress you back then?” Crowley grinned.

“Impress is an euph-iuf… yeah” the angel stuttered and shut up for a moment. Then he whispered, because he wasn't sure that was a question he could ask, “Do you want to summon yours too?”

“Nah” Crowley answered and Aziraphale’s heart sank a bit, “but you could let me... groom yourssss?”

“Mmmh,” the angel considered, “I probably should say no. Bet it’s sacril-sacreeeleg… not holy. But still,” he added lazily, “it’s been so long and I really need a decent grooming session.” His wings fluttered in emphasis, then he let them rest on the couch’s backrest.

“You do” Crowley agreed. Then he came closer, almost reverently, and miracled a grooming brush in his palm. “You sure?” he whispered. 

“Yes.”

Crowley’s hands were surprisingly gentle. At a certain point he even waved his fingers and a soft music started playing.

It was so good: the haze of the wine, his warm essence, the music. Crowley was talking softly but the angel couldn't make out the words, only their melody.

“Angel. Are you falling asleep on me?”

“Mmmmhno?”

“Yes, you are.” He was probably trying to sound annoyed but actually was very sweet.

“Just… draw your wings back in, ok? So it'll be easier to…” he went on.

Aziraphale groaned but complied.

“Good angel” Crowley chuckled.

Next thing Aziraphale knew, he was in the Bentley.

“Oh, hey sweetie” he greeted her, stroking the glove compartment.

“You never called me _sweetie_ ” Crowley grunted. 

“Whaaaaat? I didn't hear you.”

“Nothing. Now, _my dear Bentley._ NO music. Leave us in peace” the demon ordered.

“But I want some music!” the angel whined and he could feel that the Bentley agreed.

Before either of them could further discuss, the radio started playing.

_I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things_

Aziraphale didn't know this song. He casually looked at Crowley. He wasn't sure, there wasn't much light, but was he blushing?

_Ooh love ooh lover boy_

_What’re you doing tonight, hey boy_

“Nice to be one of your… bebop band” Aziraphale yawned.

“Right” was the clipped answer.

_Ooh let me feel your heartbeat_

It was hot. Wasn't it?

_Dining at the Ritz, we'll meet at 9 precisely_

“Ooh, the Ritz!”

“Angel, just don't listen, ok?”

_Just take me back to yours that will be fine (come on and get it)_ (“Damn it, Freddie!”)

Aziraphale was giggling now. He didn't even know why. Crowley looked miserable though. 

_That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned (fashioned) lover boy!_

“Finally!” Crowley cried out. “We’re here. Goodbye angel.”

Aziraphale sighed at his tone, fumbled with the handle (“Don't you _dare_ lock us in” he vaguely heard the demon hissing) and eventually got out of the car. 

It took him five minutes to find the keys of the bookshop. But then he couldn't centre the lock. At the hundredth try, a slender hand enveloped his own and the door finally opened.

“It was embarrassing, really” Crowley whispered in his ear. Then he gently nudged the angel inside.

“I’ll see you settled down and then leave” he added.

Aziraphale sank into his armchair. “We could drink some mooore” he suggested hopefully.

“Ngk.”

“Come on. _You're no fun!_ ”

Crowley rolled his eyes but smiled. “Not tonight, angel. Goodbye.”

As the demon sauntered away, Aziraphale watched him disappear into the night, slowly realising how foolish he was. A fool. But a happy one.

**AZIRAPHALE**

Aziraphale was humming out of tune while he tidied the bookshop. He wasn’t sure which tune he was humming exactly, probably something he heard while on the Bentley (he only remembered that the song was about someone dining at the Ritz at 9, nothing else). He was so absorbed he didn’t notice that someone had entered the shop, until he heard a discrete cough. No one coughed like that. No one apart from…

“Gabriel!” he greeted, slowly turning to face his guest. His guests: yes, because the archangel was accompanied by Sandalphon and Uriel as well. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gabriel sighed and shook his head. “It’s not exactly for pleasure that we are here” he said in a severe tone. Aziraphale went pale. “If it’s about the Parade…” he stammered. But Gabriel interrupted him, “No, no, the Parade was fine. The problem is, there hasn’t been enough… thwarting, if you know what I mean.”

Aziraphale tried to put his thoughts in order: apparently, they didn’t know about Crowley or they would have asked about it straight away. Or at least, he hoped so.

Seeing that he wasn’t giving any response, Sandalphon cut in. “Maybe all these… material objects are driving your focus away from your Purpose, Aziraphale?” he asked, encompassing the books with one gesture.

Aziraphale bit down his raising panic. “No, not at all. You see, this… material façade is essential to blend among humans…”

While he was talking, Uriel had picked up a book. The misplaced copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ , which the angel had never put back in its place. He liked to see it on his desk. It was a reminder of a sort. “ _To Mr Fell. May you find the affections you seek. With affection, Jane_ ” Uriel read out aloud, then added, “What does this even mean?” She didn’t wait for an answer: one moment, the book was there, the next, it was incinerated in a blaze of holy fire.

Aziraphale screamed internally, but managed to shut up. He turned his gaze away from Uriel and faced Gabriel once again. “So, what are my orders now?” he asked in a whisper.

“Here’s a list” the archangel said, handing out a piece of paper folded neatly. “Do it in the least time possible, let’s say a couple of months, and it will all be forgiven.”

“We’ll close an eye on this… _gross matter_ matter,” Sandalphon added with a cruel smile. He also picked up a book, _The Portrait of Dorian Gray,_ first edition, gifted by Oscar himself just right before he had died, “if you don’t let us down again.” The book was tore in two mid-air, then the two halves took fire and dissolved into a pile of ashes. Aziraphale stared at it, bewildered, out of words, until Gabriel came closer and asked, “Understood?”

“Understood” the angel answered weakly.

Gabriel, Uriel and Sandalphon nodded, satisfied, and left in a flash of light.

As soon as they disappeared, Aziraphale sank on the floor, tears streaming down his face.

“I’m sorry” he cried. The books rustled in soothing understanding. And rage.


	13. Antichrists, nannies and gardeners

**GOD, IN VOICE-OVER**

After this episode, the two of them had to lay low for a bit. They decided not to see each other too often, while Aziraphale took care of everything written on the list. They only met in their secret meeting points (the ducks’ pond wasn't one any more), quite seldom.

But then, the Antichrist was delivered. By Crowley (not delivered _delivered._ Only delivered. Handed over). It was actually quite fun to watch all the child-swap matter undisturbed, from up here. And then to see if they would come up with a plan. So I was watching when they became a gardener and a nanny.

Very amusing indeed.

**CROWLEY**

When he arrived at house Dowling as nanny Ashtoreth, no one made any remark about how much he looked like Mary Poppins. To say he was slightly offended would be a euphemism. Only Aziraphale complimented him (“That dress really suits you, my dear”) and had even gifted him an umbrella with a bird-shaped handle. “To complete the outfit” he had added with a laugh. The angel himself had chosen a not very dashing look, deeming it fit for a gardener (with the even less compelling name of _brother Francis_ ). Crowley had tried to argue (“You’ll scare the plants!” “Not if I'll be nice to them”) but to no avail. And so they were there, working together again. To nullify each other’s influence on the Antichrist himself.

At first the whole business was very stressing but after a few years, once they started thinking that they were succeeding, it almost became amusing. 

The villa was a nice place where to live: there was a big garden, a nice accommodation for both of them and the rest of the staff wasn't that bad. Especially the Mexican butler, Pablo, with whom Crowley relearned his quite rusted Spanish. And then there was Warlock. The kid had no hooves or horns or whatever and, don't tell Aziraphale, the demon was growing quite fond of him. His parents didn't spend a lot of time with the child so Crowley had free rein about almost everything: games to play, places to visit, stories to tell. He had already narrated to him the whole _Inferno_ of Dante, highlighting the most disgusting parts (which were, and he was very proud of it, inspired to the poet by himself). Then, when they both had free time, he would sit with Aziraphale in the garden.

“Very lush, this garden. Tell me your secret, angel.”

“I’m just being nice to the plants” his best friend answered with a wink.

Crowley groaned loudly. It was spring and the flowers were blooming, releasing pollen in the air. Crowley sneezed.

“Bless you” Aziraphale said politely.

Crowley made a show of spitting and hissing. “You can't bless me, angel, I’m a fucking demon. Now I’ll burst from the inside…” he interrupted himself, catching his breath, his face red. The angel turned to him, eyes wide. “What have I…” he babbled. 

_ETCHAUW!_

Crowley couldn't stop sneezing. Aziraphale leaned back and chuckled, “Bursting from the inside out indeed, my dear! Besides, weren’t allergies one of your own inventions?”

The demon threw him a venomous glance from under teary eyes. “I got the idea, but the design was a group’s effort. The bloody idiots put allergenic potential into random things. I would have left food out of it.”

Aziraphale laughed once more. “As I always say, evil…”

“Contains the seeds of its own destruction, yeah” Crowley interrupted him. “Bloody flowers” he added in a mutter and then sneezed again.

**AZIRAPHALE**

Aziraphale must admit that he was enjoying his time at house Dowling. First of all, it had provided him with a reason to finally try out gardening (and Crowley had _nothing_ to do with it) and secondly, the boy wasn't that bad and he felt excited about the whole Godfather thing. When he was not tending to the garden, he accompanied the child through it and told him everything about nature and love. He also tried to recite him some lines from the _Paradiso_ of Dante, but to no avail: Warlock wouldn't listen to him and said that nanny Asthoreth’s stories were better. Then, when he had free time, he usually slouched on the meadow with Crowley and had a drink.

One of the villa’s butlers, a Mexican guy named Pablo, had found out their schedule and used to bring them tea out in the garden. Aziraphale didn't know much Spanish but had at least learned how to say thank you. So, one afternoon, as Pablo brought them their tea and a jam and ketchup sandwich for Crowley (he didn't know how his friend had come up with such a despicable match. He wasn't even sure he actually _liked_ it, he probably just enjoyed Aziraphale’s horrified expression as he bit into it), the angel smiled at him and said, “Gracias!”

The butler looked very pleased and beamed before going back inside. Aziraphale took a sip from his cup, content. Warlock, who was sitting between the two of them, tried to emulate the word. “Gaciasss!” he screamed happily.

“Have you ever noticed” Crowley idly asked, absently chewing at his sandwich, “that _gracias_ sounds exactly as _grassy ass_?”

The angel’s mouth popped open, then he scowled. “Crowley! Watch your mouth, there are children here!”

“Gassy ass” Warlock repeated excitedly. 

“It’s _nanny Ashtoreth,_ angel” Crowley answered with a smirk, ignoring the whole cursing business.

Aziraphale would have retorted. However, any further discussion was averted by the fact that the child had stood up and was now rolling down from a meadowy slope, laughing wildly. The angel and the demon abandoned their tea to run after him. It was a sunny day and they were almost convinced that nothing would go wrong, apart from a slightly scraped knee.

**CROWLEY**

“Kitty eyes!” Warlock let out a delighted squeak. He was waving Crowley’s sunglasses in his chubby hands, while looking at him curiously, straight in the eyes. Big, yellow, slitted eyes.

“Not exactly” the demon muttered trying to catch his sunglasses.

Aziraphale, who was walking across the park with them, chuckled. “ _Kitty eyes._ I shall remember this one!”

Crowley pouted and then explained to the kid, “They’re not _kitty_ eyes. They’re _snake_ eyes.”

“Bloody cool!” the child smiled. “I like snakes better.”

Crowley, deep down, felt his heart melt but tried to keep it cool. Aziraphale, on the contrary, didn't look very pleased. “He doesn't speak correctly yet but he knows how to swear?”

“Just doing my job” the demon laughed. 

The rest of the day passed by uneventfully. Actually, not really uneventfully. Because that evening Crowley realised he had just spent an entire day without his sunglasses (Warlock had worn them and refused to give them back until he had fallen asleep). And this was very unusual. Last time he hadn't worn them for so long in public was… back at the time of Jesus perhaps. It wasn't safe for him to walk among humans without them (and after the incident about red hair, even more so) and… and it was a sort of a way to shield Aziraphale from his demonic true self. The yellow eyes were a part of him that he couldn't change, ever, and he hated it. Hated them. Crowley was so used to his sunglasses that without them he almost felt… naked. But that day in the park he hadn't felt so.

He smiled before curling in his bed and falling asleep as well.


	14. The longest and shortest four days ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't very detailed. I chose to include only the most significant parts of the "Apocalypse week" because you already know what happens. And also, the idea is that these four days pass by in a rush, no time for fancy descriptions and such!

**GOD, IN VOICE-OVER _(YES, AGAIN)_**

And so, 11 years passed and the not-Antichrist grew up normal. Well, not exactly normal. As normal as a kid whose parents didn't spend time with him and whose parental figures were an ugly hippie gardener and a cool goth nanny could be.

11 years passed, in which brother Francis and nanny Ashtoreth were mistaken as a couple something like 67 times.

11 years passed, and then the Apocalypse was just four days away.

**THOSE FOUR DAYS**

Aziraphale was pissed (he would say ‘mildly irritated’ instead, though). How, for Heaven’s sake, do you misplace an Antichrist? Crowley looked relaxed as always but the angel could read the lines of tensions which gave it away: raised brow, thinned lips, fingers drumming constantly on the Bentley’s steering wheel. The car herself was silent, as if shocked too, while they drove to the convent where Crowley delivered the baby. Which now was a place where people pretended to shoot each other. “Humans are really obsessed with war, aren't they?” he thought. 

Then there was Crowley, transforming the guns into real ones. “Crowley!” But having miracle escapes for everyone. “I have always said, that deep down, you are a quite nice…”

Crowley shoved him against the wall, not exactly gently but not even too roughly, and hissed, “I’m a demon, I’m not nice!”

Aziraphale didn't hear the rest. In fact, a sudden thought had crossed his mind: “I could kiss him”, immediately followed by: “Are you crazy?”

Then the former nun interrupted them. And they found out that there was no record of the babies’ birth that damn night of 11 years ago.

Later, they hit a young lady with a bicycle and Aziraphale found (stole) Agnes Nutter’s book of prophecies, which he had been seeking for many years.

It would have been a nice day if the Armageddon hadn't been on their doorstep.

Once again, Crowley had urged him to a secret meeting point. Once again, things were going to end badly. Aziraphale could almost feel it in the air as he approached the demon. His friend had a plan, one that he wouldn't like.

“We could run off together! Alpha Centauri!” the demon was yelling. He sounded desperate in a way Aziraphale had never heard before.

“Run off together?” he repeated weakly. His brain was trying to put things together. His words and the sweet and warm something flashing from the demon whenever they were together. But no. He couldn't. He didn't know where he found the force to say, “I don't even like you!”

And finally, Crowley was sick of his lies. He didn't answer angrily. He pretended to be cool with it. He turned. And left. 

Aziraphale felt both stupid and lonely. But, being an angel, duty came before anything. Whatever the cost.

“Here he is!” Crowley yelled at the Bentley as he saw Aziraphale walking by. He parked (or not very legally positioned) the car and jumped out and ran to him.

“Angel! I’m sorry. Come on, I’m apologizing here. Now, get in” he frantically begged.

Aziraphale gave him a strange look and Crowley understood he was going to say no. There were many things the demon wanted to do in that moment: cry (not very demonic), yell at Aziraphale until he hopped in (probably ineffective), tell him that… that he… (loved him).

He did neither. Actually, he told Aziraphale that he was stupid. 

And then, there was the angel’s answer: “I forgive you.”

That was too much. He was unforgivable and that damn angel had just forgiven him just as it was the easier thing to do in the world. Too much. Too much emotion. Too much to lose. He was leaving.

“Goodbye, angel. Once on Alpha Centauri, I won't even think about you!” he screamed and ran off on the Bentley.

He saw the hurt in Aziraphale’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. He waited just a second for the angel to run after him. Aziraphale didn't. Crowley left.

Master angry. Master leaving. What of them? Master sad.

Someone at the door. Evil. Plants scared but master smart. Holy water?! Bucket on the door. It can't work! Too easy! It does. Bubbling, smelling demon pool. Ugh.

But still one demon. Master with their mister. Holy water there too? No, bluffing.

Then, angel call.

“Ssso long, suckerssssss!”

Weird run through the phone (explanation later, not understandable at the moment). Evil demon in a trap.

But master still scared. Not for himself. For the angel. Also in danger. 

Run, master, run!

It watched the lit candle fall, helplessly. It watched as an old manuscript started to burn. It silently screamed as fire consumed it. It was unbearably painful because it wasn't simply dying. No, the flames were also consuming old precious knowledge. It screamed but nobody could hear until it was too late to be saved.

Crowley had never noticed he could sense Aziraphale’s presence somewhere in the back of his brain, even if he was miles away. He had never noticed until he couldn't sense him anymore and almost lost his grip on the Bentley’s steering wheel.

“Faster!” he screamed to his car and she obliged, zigzagging through the traffic of London. Normally, he would have parked on the sidewalk just outside the bookshop and stormed in. But the sidewalk was already taken by a firefighter truck. And the bookshop was on fire. He almost could feel its pain.

“No…” he whispered, getting out of the Bentley. He ran inside even if some dumb human tried to stop him. Maybe Aziraphale was there, injured or…

“Aziraphale? I can't sense you! Where are you?”

No answer. It couldn't be, it couldn't…

A spray of water hit him hard. He felt his sunglasses breaking. He hit the floor with a gasp. He knelt in the ashes.

“Aziraphale! For Heaven’s… For Satan’s… For somebody's sake!”

And then he realised it. As holy water was mortal to demons, demonic fire was… No.

“BASTARDS! ALL OF YOU!” he cried out. 

He grabbed one of the few surviving books. It was the only thing that remained of Aziraphale. He stood. There was no point anymore in leaving.

A really weird man sat in the pub. He looked like he had come straight from Hell: black dirty clothes, ash in his red hair, a bewildered gaze. He had started to drink alcohol and apparently, he wasn't going to stop soon. “I should send him away or ask for help” the barman thought. But somehow, he couldn't help but serve the man drink after drink. Then the weirdo began talking alone. He even did different voices. Apparently, he thought he was a demon but he didn't want to be one anymore.

Suddenly, his conversation changed. Now he was speaking with some Azr… Azer… A-phale someone. But there was no one on the seat in front of him. The barman looked around, puzzled. The other clients were minding their own business. Apparently, no one was noticing anything strange. “Am I going insane?” he thought.

Finally, the weird man stood up, muttering something like: “Tadfield, here I come” and left. The barman was going to shout after him that he hadn’t paid for his alcohol. But when he raised a hand to shook his fist after him, he saw that it was holding a 100£ banknote and a piece of paper which read: _Keep the change and enjoy the last few hours of this world_ _🐍_ _._

When she saw the wall of flames, the Bentley knew what she had to do. “It has been a good ride” she thought and dove into the burning M25, blasting _Bohemian Rhapsody_ for the last time.

It was very painful but with the help of her master she went on. She had to. If she didn't, everything would be destroyed, from her master to his angel.

They arrived at Tadfield Air Base. She resisted a bit longer, long enough to see her master out and safe. Then she let go and passed away, in the way she did everything: with style.

The last hours of their lives were very full and confusing for Crowley. He didn't have the chance to process much of it: the fight, the fire, the Bentley. The small big relief of meeting Aziraphale safe and sound. The four horsemen of the apocalypse, the kids. Fucking Satan himself. Pissed Gabriel and Beelzebub. Then the world anew, starting with Aziraphale standing at his side. What the Hell had just happened? He wasn't sure. He just knew that Armageddon was no more and that he was sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus, with Aziraphale. But it wasn’t over. Not yet.

The last few days/hours had passed in a confused blur for Aziraphale. He had thought that after their last fight, Crowley was finally done with him and that he was right. The angel had been desperate to see him go away but also somehow relieved that his friend would be safe. Then the Metatron and his very first swear word said out aloud. 6000 years of perfect language ruined in half a second. Then the insults back in Heaven and the rushed search for a receptive body. Crowley, who mercifully hadn't left. The whole Tadfield Air Base business, in which, scared and hopeless, he had almost _shot_ a child, Antichrist or not. His long lost/given away flaming sword in the hands of War. Satan himself. Pissed Gabriel and Beelzebub. Then the world anew, starting with Crowley standing at his side.

He had tried to keep it cool until now but the stress and all that emotion couldn't be held in for much longer.

Eventually, night fell and he was sitting with Crowley on a bench, waiting for a bus to go back to London. He was so, so tired. But it wasn't finished yet.

“You can stay at mine, if you want” Crowley suggested after a while. It was what, the third time now? Aziraphale wanted to say yes but instead chose: “I don't think my side would like it.”

“Angel… we don't have a side anymore” Crowley said softly.

“But the bookshop…” Aziraphale tried.

The demon shook his head. “It burned down, remember?”

Right. Somehow, he had forgotten. Somehow, he was able not to cry. “Oh” he whispered.

He didn't answer yet, the bus was coming their way. It read ‘Oxford’ on the destination panel but would arrive in London, somehow.

They got in, it was almost empty. Crowley took a seat and Aziraphale almost sat in front of him, as they usually did to avoid detection. But it felt silly now. So, he sat next to Crowley instead. He sensed him going stiff and then relaxing, a shy smile tugging at his lips. Then the demon very casually put a hand on Aziraphale’s. They stayed silent for a bit, until Aziraphale talked again, “I’d love to, my dear, but I’m not sure it’s safe.”

“What?” Crowley asked, puzzled. 

“To stay at yours. They know where it is.”

“Oh.” Was Crowley blushing? He seemed not to know what to say for a while. Then, “You're right. A hotel should do. I know a cosy one near the park. I have a feeling that this bus will drop us exactly there” he added with a nervous grin.

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale beamed.

Eventually, the bus dropped them exactly there.


	15. 0th anniversary (but they don't know it yet)

**AZIRAPHALE**

Aziraphale had never spent the night in a hotel, he had never felt the urge to do so. But after the lady at the reception had smiled at them, lead them through the wood-panelled corridors and wished them good night in front of their room, he wondered why.

“Oh, I almost forgot! Breakfast is served from 7:30 to 9:00 tomorrow morning. Enjoy your stay!”

“They even serve breakfast? This must be Heaven! No, actually not, because in Heaven they don't serve breakfast” he thought before entering the room. Which happened to be very nice: it was quite spacious, overlooking the hotel’s garden, decorated with care and furnished with a tartan blanket. He hopped in, taking in everything with a smile stamped on his face, then turned around to face Crowley. The smile died on his lips.

“What’s wrong?” he asked the demon, who was petrified on the threshold. 

Crowley gulped and then whispered weakly, “There is only one bed.”

Aziraphale whirled and yeah, there was just one bed. He hadn’t noticed. No, he hadn’t _cared_. They were still holding hands when they had entered the hotel and hadn't specified anything at the reception and the lady must have assumed they were a couple.

“I can go downstairs and ask for another one” the demon offered.

No, it was enough. Enough circling one another, enough lying to one another _and_ to themselves. Aziraphale took all the courage he had left and said, “It is not necessary.”

Crowley froze again as Aziraphale walked to him, took his hands and kissed him. Not just above the corner of his mouth. Not just a light one as at the end of a gavotte. He truly, deeply kissed him. And after a couple of second, Crowley kissed him back.

You might wonder, why a kiss? It was a very human thing to do. Now think: have you ever seen a demon showing affection? No. An _angel_? No. So, it somehow felt natural, intimate, appropriate. Aziraphale didn’t know any other way to convey it all and chose the one method he had learned from so many years spent among humans. Apparently, it worked.

As they parted, Aziraphale, watched his wily old serpent in the eyes and, with a smug, slightly trembling smile, he asked, “Too fast?”

Crowley face crumpled in a heart-breaking way. It crumpled and reformed in something new and soft. “No, my angel. Never.”

**CROWLEY**

As soon as he had entered the room, he had noticed the _only single one fucking bed._ Aziraphale (figures) hadn't, too delighted by the tartan blanket. 

To be sincere, he had often fantasized about such a situation but first, Aziraphale didn't sleep. Second, it was never gonna happen. Except that now it was.

He tried to sound natural as he said he would go back at the reception. He knew he didn't. He peered carefully at the angel, trying to glimpse _anything_ from his reaction _._ The first emotion was easy: surprise. Then hesitation. Then… determination? “What the heck is that?” he almost panicked as Aziraphale stalked in front of him, his aura glimmering as never before. Crowley stood there, on the threshold, frozen, as the angel took his hands. So warm and soft. As a snake, Crowley had always craved warmth. As a demon, even more so.

“It is not necessary.” What, how, why…?

And then the kiss. He had been waiting for 6000 years. Still, it was completely unexpected. For a moment, he was drowning in stupor. But then he found himself kissing back. It wasn't desperate, as someone may think. It wasn't rushed, hungry, nor driven by lust. Instead, it was simple and pure, the apex and the summary of their 6000 years spent together. 

“Too fast?” his angel asked as they briefly parted. Oh, that smug, soft bastard.

Crowley smiled. For the first time ever, he didn’t really care about being Fallen. And he wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.

“No, my angel. Never.”

They spent the night in each other's warmth, wrapped in their wings and in the tartan blanket. When they woke up the next morning, they knew what they had to do.

**THE BOOKSHOP**

It had died in the flames and then was born anew. It felt very strange: at first like a dream ( _Can_ bookshops dream?), then like time had been rewinded, to before the fire. Now it felt strong and happy. It even had new books!

The door opened and it was ready to welcome its master back but… but it wasn't him. He looked like him but felt like the demon. What a pleasant surprise! It remembered his pain when he thought its master was dead and it could see the realization that the angel was safe slowly settling on him. The books rustled happily, the new ones assembling themselves in a neat row in display.

“Those are new” the demon whispered. He stayed there still a bit, then went for the door. “He’ll be back” he promised before he left.

**THE BENTLEY**

She had died in the flames and then was born anew. Right in the parking lot near her master’s flat. She was so happy and grateful that she had played an entire CD without turning it into the Queen, just for herself. Then, she sensed him approaching. She almost laughed ( _Can_ cars laugh?) when she saw the angel wearing her master’s body. He smiled fondly at her and whispered, “He'll be back.” Then he took a taxi and left.

“He should learn how to drive, really” she thought. “Maybe I could teach him!”  
  


**THE DUCKS**

White and Black were finally back. The ducks had been a bit concerned after their dramatic fight but apparently everything was fine. Except that there was something strange. Black wasn't sprawled as usual. White was. And then, it was Black again who bought ice-cream. Did they swap roles or something?

Out of the blue, someone attacked them. First, White (if it was really him) was taken away by creepy people speaking in a weird way. Black threw his ice lolly (which hit one of them ducks, how rude!) to run after the kidnappers but was brought down by another lot of creepy people. The humans around didn't seem to notice.

The ducks, despite the not very nice throw of the ice lolly, were concerned: no one else had ever fed them so constantly throughout so many centuries as Black and White.

**HEAVEN**

It was cold. Cold and sterile. Was it like _that_ before he fell? It was all Crowley could think beside the rage which was almost consuming him. Nevertheless, he reined himself. He was supposed to be _Aziraphale._ His angel would be calm and try to be nice even if the others weren't. 

Crowley was tied to a chair, ropes digging in his wrists. Gabriel, Uriel and bloody Sandalphon were there. No one else. He waited for the process. He waited for the accusations. But they didn't come. Instead… “Shut your stupid mouth and die already” Gabriel uttered with a horrible circumstantial smile, a circle of demonic fire laid on the floor. Brought there _specifically to kill Aziraphale._

There were many things Crowley would have liked to do: insult the angels (satisfying but practically useless), yell at them for how terribly they had treated his angel (not very clever in that moment), incinerate them all (veeeery enticing but Aziraphale would have never forgiven him afterwards). But the show must go on. So he just threw them a murderous glance and stepped into the fire.

The itching finally stopped. 

  
**HELL**

Aziraphale had never been to Hell. And hoped he would never again. The whole place was overcrowded and smelled. Badly. Nevertheless, he kept it cool, as Crowley would do, demonic walk and raised brow and everything. As they brought him in front of Beelzebub, he wondered, only for a second, how was Crowley’s (should he say _Aziraphale’s_?) process Upstairs.

He wasn't really scared. Well, he was a bit frightened, but he was also sorry. Sorry for all these demons and their misery. How were they before the Fall? Had they ever had a chance to do better than this? Aziraphale highly doubted it.

Then, _Michael_ was down there. Aziraphale almost swore again when he saw the archangel. With holy water. He didn't know how he reined himself, from launching himself on Michael, on Beelzebub, on all those fucking demons who wanted Crowley dead just because he had made a choice (wasn't it the fucking reason why they all fell in the first place???). He didn't know how but still, he was able to keep it cool. More than that, actually: he also made some sarcasm. Sadly, no one there appreciated but he was sure Crowley would be delighted by his request of a rubber duck. By calling Michael _dude._ By asking her to miracle him a towel.

Finally, he threatened them. He had never really threatened anyone, it felt liberating. 

So, after happily bathing in holy water, he dried himself, put back on Crowley’s new jacket and left Hell with style.

**AFTER THE RITZ**

It had been a very nice lunch (date). Aziraphale had eaten the entire Sunday Lunch Menu and also a consistent part of Crowley’s meal. The demon didn't mind, he was content to simply stare affectionately at his angel, dipping some mussels in his black coffee.

After lunch, they went first to recover the Bentley and say hello to the plants, then drove to the bookshop, the car blasting _I’m in love with my car._ Aziraphale pretended to complain about the new collection of books (“Not very fitting in here, too modern!”) just because he didn't know what to do with himself while Crowley stared at a spot on the floor. The spot where he had knelt, thinking the angel was dead. But Aziraphale _wasn't_ dead and reminded him with a tight hug.

They stayed there till sundown. And then some more.


	16. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell

**AZIRAPHALE**

It was a delight to have finally all the pieces coming together. And not be afraid any more. But it wasn't an easy process.

When they had first kissed, Crowley had been hungry. No, not hungry but… yearning. For a gentle touch. For affection. For warmth. But after the whole swap business and the afternoon spent at the bookshop, he had tried to put some space between them once more. But Aziraphale had had enough of it. Now that they could be close, Crowley tried to push him away? Not ever.

So he visited him at his apartment, unannounced. As soon as he entered, he heard Crowley speaking. “I want to, but. I. CAN'T!” he was yelling at his plants. Aziraphale stepped in and coughed. His darling jumped and whirled and stared at him. 

“Crowley, tell me what’s wrong” Aziraphale demanded after a long silence.

“Angel, you are really dumb, aren't you?”

“Insulting me won't work, my dear.”

“Nothing will work” Crowley hissed, turning his back at him.

“What does that even mean? Isn't this… what you wanted?” the angel asked.

“Yesss. No.”

Aziraphale frowned and kept his mouth eloquently shut.

“Yes,” Crowley finally hissed, “I’ve always wanted it. Until I didn't get it. You know, I had accepted the idea that I would never. And now… it’s jussst wrong.”

Aziraphale felt his heart ache. “Why are you saying this? I… I want to be with you, Crowley. I don't know how yet but I know that you are the most important… _everything_ in my life. I really don't know how I didn't realise before, all the time we met, I was always so happy – and do you remember that time in France? – I…”

“STOP!” Crowley screamed. Aziraphale shut up, worried.

“Just… stop.” His darling turned to face him again. He was shivering as he said, “Don't you sssee? I've tempted you. Corrupted you. Ssssomehow, I did ssomething no demon ever did. Must be considered a success, Downstairsss.”

Aziraphale replied, “Is this really what you think? It’s simply… it’s…”

“What if you Fall because of _me_?”

Oh, so _that_ was it.

“Oh, Crowley” he said, walking up to him and taking his face into his hands. His fingers immediately got soaked in hot salty tears. “I won't Fall because I _know_ what I’m doing is right.”

Crowley let out a weak laugh. “How are you ssso sure?”

“I left doubt behind that night in the hotel” he confided. “You know, I realised what I was feeling back in 1941. I knew it but thought it was wrong. But I couldn't understand _why_ it felt wrong. And the answer is because _it isn’t_. We _are_ made of love, for fuck’s sake, let's put it to good use!”

Crowley stared in awe at him, hopeful, trusting, vulnerable. Taking slowly his words in. When his heart was finally filled with them, he whispered, “Did you just swear?”

Aziraphale scowled. “I just made you the most profound speech we ever had and all you ask is if I just swore?” He smiled, “Yes, I fucking did” and with a wicked laugh he kissed Crowley’s popped-open-in-shock mouth. After a heartbeat, Crowley enveloped him in his arms and wouldn't let go. Not ever.

**CROWLEY**

Up on the rooftop, Crowley splayed his wings, dark as the sky at night. They had finally completely healed, even if some little scars from Incubus’s ministrations remained. A swift wind caressed his feathers. He breathed down the fresh air and then, with a mighty flap of wings, he jumped and soared, up up up. He flew so high that the sparkling city could have been the star-lit sky and the star-lit sky could have been the sparkling city. He flew until he was in between two planes, two different creations to which he had contributed, first as an angel, later as a demon. And he was so proud.

A gentle current accompanied him, a cool touch upon his skin. He couldn’t help but think about the Plan. Did he Fall to later avert the Apocalypse? To be, with Aziraphale, the bridge between Heaven and Hell? To protect Her favourite creation? He really didn’t have any clear answer. But then, did it truly matter?

Crowley looked once more at the stars. He had really enjoyed creating them: beautiful, bright and mysterious. Then he glanced downwards. The city was bright too. Brighter, even.

**A VERY PERPLEXED GOD**

So. The reason why some angels fell in the very first place is too complicated for you to understand. _And_ I happened to invent ineffability just not to have to explain everything to you.

But, right now, you might be thinking, “Why didn’t Aziraphale Fall?”

Good question, really. His actions may have caused his Fall, after all. But have you listened to his explanation? Too good to prove him wrong.

So. Crowley and Aziraphale. The brightest angel and demon, living proofs of the Ineffable.

***

You can find Aziraphale, Crowley and me reading some other extracts of this fic [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uc05vQpe1Lo&t=343s)


	17. To the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a silly chapter, written for a friend of mine. She was the first one to read this fanfiction and her enthusiasm has helped me writing all of this. So thank you!

**4 TH ANNIVERSARY**

It was their anniversary they had decided. Actually, Aziraphale had insisted that they should have one and Crowley eventually capitulated. It was on the date of the first day of the rest of their life.

They went to the Ritz of course and then had a stroll through the city. They were walking on London Bridge when Crowley grabbed Aziraphale and tugged him urgently left. Aziraphale’s heart missed a beat and the angel let out a little cry before turning to the demon to ask him what was wrong. But Crowley didn't look concerned. No, he was actually sticking his tongue out in a general direction.

Aziraphale turned in a circle, confused, and then looked back at Crowley, who was now grinning broadly.

“Is anything wrong?” the angel asked, unable to stop his own smile.

“Nah. On the contrary. We just photo-bombed a selfie” the demon answered while indicating vaguely towards two tourists.

Aziraphale scowled. “That’s not very nice, my dearest!”

“Who ever said I was nice? Besides, selfies are one of my inventions so I get to photo-bomb them whenever I wish!”

The angel laughed. It was simply wonderful not to care about being 100% nice all the time. And for the demon, it was simply wonderful not to have to be always 100% evil.

They took each other’s hand and went on with their stroll.

“So… what were you saying about that cottage?” Aziraphale asked.

“It has a garden. A big one. And a nice spot for the Bentley. And lot of space for the books.”

“It sounds wonderful. Wonderful indeed!”

It was a perfect day. It was a perfect day and it always would be because they had one another.

  
**THE TOURISTS**

That evening, in the hotel room she shared with her friend Alice, Giulia was scrolling through the pictures she had taken with her phone. London was a big city, a bit overwhelming for someone who, like her, comes from the countryside, transpiring _Englishness_ through every pore. But she liked it. In the morning they had taken part in a Harry Potter tour (gaining many points for Hufflepuff when answering the guide’s questions about the saga. What a couple of nerds). Then, during the afternoon, they had strolled along the Thames, had a go on the London Eye and walked on the…

“What the…? Alice, come have a look!”

In the background of the first selfie they had taken on the London Bridge there were also two unexpected figures. One with flashing red hair, dark stylish clothes and his tongue out (“Goodness, doesn't it look almost forked?” “Ngk, it must be a trick of the light”); the other one was the complete opposite: feathery curls, light-coloured jacket, tartan bow tie (“He looks so pristine, angelic almost!”) and a funny expression, caught between fright and confusion. 

Alice laughed, “I didn't notice we were being photo-bombed!”

As they scrolled to the next picture, they let out a collective _awwww._

They had taken another selfie but the ginger-headed, almost devilish-looking man hadn't noticed that the two of them were still in the girls’ camera range.

So, as a background of their second selfie, Giulia and Alice didn't only have the Thames and the London Eye, but also two people staring fondly at each other, holding hands. Two people in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. I was a bit sad when I finished writing this, because I wrote it with love. In fact, Good Omens means love and comfort to me and I hope I was able to trasmit it to you, my readers.  
> Feel free to comment and if you liked this fanfic, check the others I've written!
> 
> To the world <3


End file.
